Water, Torture, Slaughter
by Lacey Bennet
Summary: "I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love." So says Johanna Mason in the 75th Annual Hunger Games. But in the depths of a Capital laboratory, being physically and pyschologically tortued by a team of "creative" scientists, will Johanna finally crack? Rated M coz ... well ... you'll find out if you read it! Let's just say it's gruesome...
1. Flashbacks

_**Disclaimer: It's not mine. It all belongs to Suzanne Collins.**_

Water. That's the first thing I'm aware of. It surrounds my naked body, cool and refreshing, easing the pain. My eyelids feel as if they have heavy lead balls attached to them, they're so heavy. I know I wouldn't be able to open my eyes, even if I tried. I don't want to, anyway. The water seems to leach the pain out of my body, just like it drew the poison out of Katniss, Peeta and Finnick's skin in the …

… arena …

BAM! Memories come flooding back like a river breaking its banks. The arena. The arena. Images flash in front of my eyes and I swear to the ends of the earth they're not memories, this is actually happening, right here, right now, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

I'm back in District Seven, up on the stage in a roped-off area. I'm staring at the sky and Doris Profette, the tiny woman from the Capital in her tiny magenta dress and sky-high heels is exclaiming how exciting this year's Games ought to be. She totters over to the huge glass ball; the one I know has my name in it, and has to step up onto a little box, because even with the heels she's far too short. Her short pudgy arm can barely reach the top of the tiny pile of slips. Finger extended and standing on tip-toe, she just manages to grab on of the slips, the one on the very top. I hear a collective intake of breath in anticipation from the crowd and I can hear myself doing it too.

Doris Profette totters over to the podium and gathers a deep breath to announce the tribute.

"And," she says, flashing the crowd what's meant to be an encouraging smile, "The girl tribute from District Seven, this very lucky lady who gets the pleasure to participate in _another _Games, no less a Quarter Quell issssss," she drags the word out and I can tell how much she likes the sound of her own voice, "Johanna Mason!"

I know the next thing that happened was me brushing my sweaty palms on my pants, and then cautiously venturing over to Doris's side, but my flashback doesn't show this. The next thing I relive is stepping out of the chariot after the ride around the City Circle. I'm wearing a tree. Ugh. Our stylist is so unoriginal.

Somehow the flashback fast-forwards, and I'm in the lift, talking to Peeta about his paintings, stark naked. Katniss is looking at the floor, the ceiling, Peeta, my face, everything but my naked body. I feel suddenly wicked, the way I'm making her uncomfortable.

We stop at my floor but I don't get out. President Snow steps in, and the lift keeps going up. Wait, that's not right. Katniss and Peeta are gone, and President Snow and I aren't the lift anymore, we're back in my house in the Victor's Village. My memories are quickly transferring into a very real nightmare. Except it actually happened.

"Johanna," he says, examining my body critically like a scientist might examine a new specimen, "There are some people in … the Capital who are … _very_ rich," he puts particular emphasis onto the word. "If you did them a … small favour, they would give you enough money to secure your family a bountiful life when you die." _When,_ not _if_.

"I don't have any family left," I say, my voice ringing through the room. "They all died. From starvation."

"I see," said the president, his eyes shining dangerously. "Well, then , perhaps … a friend?"

"What's the favour?" I ask, not wanting to tell him I have no friends in my district.

The president, I could see, was getting irritated at my lack of co-operation. Time to back pedal. But I don't want to back pedal. I go on.

"You see, sir, I have no friends or family to give the money to. And I don't need more money, do I? So thanks, but no thanks."

"Is there anyone you care about, Johanna?" I flinch when he uses my first name.

"Nobody," I say, looking right into his snake eyes and knowing that I speak the truth.

_Open your eyes. Open your eyes._

Yes, open my eyes. I have to get out of this dream-like world of memories and fantasy.

_Open your eyes_.

Suddenly I come to. I'm in a vessel of water, not at the reaping, not at my house, not in the Capital –

Or am I?

I open my eyes and see for the first time what I look like. Bruised, scarred, cuts decorating my arms and legs. After a moment I look up from my entrancing inspection of my own body. I see a gloved, masked man arming what looks like a control unit outside my glass pool of water, I see him for a second before he sees me and quickly presses a button. I'm confused for a second longer.

Then the pain hits.

_"I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love."_ Johanna Mason, Catching Fire, pg. 347

_**Well, so that's what it's like being tortured in the Capital. Johanna didn't at this point realise that this was only the first of many attempts to wring information out of her.**_

_**Please review! I would love it so much and it would really make my day!**_


	2. I promise

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of it, Suzanne Collins does. I'd also like to thank Suzanne Collins for giving me another series I can brag about reading twenty times. And Finnick Odair.**_

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Previously:

_I'm confused for a second longer._

_Then the pain hits._

* * *

Electric shocks run through my body and find my lungs and throat as a target. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I need to breathe. I need oxygen to fuel this never-ending scream which has escaped my body without my permission.

I trash around wildly. The glass pool proves smaller than I first thought, and I bang my head and body repeatedly against the thick glass sides.

Screaming, screaming, screaming … but the worst part is yet to come. The water has transformed from a safe haven of oblivion to … to … swimming in electricity.

Once, back home, in District Seven, I got an electric shock. It had been a few days after moving into my new house in Victor's Village. I'd been showered with money, new dresses, furniture and appliances I was fairly sure I'd never use, such as a little machine which tears the toilet paper for you, a mechanical arm that will butter your toast if you don't want to yourself, and a mini computer devoted entirely to deciding what would look good with a certain garment. All complimentary gifts from my admirers in the Capital.

There was one in particular that I wanted to try. It was a toaster, and it meant I wouldn't have to toast bread over the fire anymore. I was rather intrigued at how it worked, then I would curse myself for falling for the Capital's shiny trinkets, then I'd fantasise about trying it again …

I didn't want to use any of the things I'd got from the Capital. I'd refrained from even touching any of the gifts my stupid, oblivious Capital-admirers had given me.

It was a bit stupid, I guess, but I hated them and now I was reminded of them every time I set foot in my own home.

I did use it, eventually. I was confused about how the electrical bit of it worked though, having been raised in the Orphanage and never been indulged in such luxury.

After I toasted the bread, I slowly pulled the plug out of the electrical socket in the wall. My hands were wet, and they had brief contact with the metal prongs of the plug while it was still partially in the socket. My finger was zapped, and I pulled it away quickly, sucking on it and glaring at the toaster.

That was nothing in comparison. If my encounter with the toaster was a leaf, then this was a whole forest of swaying sighing oaks and pines.

About five minutes passed, and then finally it stopped. I clutched my arms, sure that they couldn't leave me in peace to float away to oblivion again, certain they would try it again, steeling myself for the next attack.

It didn't come. Hot, grimy tears ran down my face. Stupid. Don't cry. Stop being an idiot. Instead the tears flowed fast and thick and I started making little sobbing noises. I think of home. I take a deep breath and compose myself.

"Johanna."

I whirl around, only to face the stranger who had pressed the buttons which charged the water with electricity. I glare, and try to stand upright in the water, but the fact that I was just crying and my legs are wobbling and I'm naked kind of take the edge off my proud defence.

"How do you know my name?" I whisper instead.

He smiles, a cruel, twisted smile that makes my heart beat faster and my stomach twist in anxiety. "Johanna Mason. District Seven. Victor. Everyone in the Capital knows about you."

So I am in the Capital. He seems to see that he's said too much and tries to cover up.

"Johanna, we have received intelligence that there was a … plan which had been concocted for this year's Hunger Games."

I snort despite myself. "Duh, dummy. Didn't you see Beetee try to shove the knife into the force field, or Katniss sending an arrow at it?"

Definitely not what I was meant to say.

"So you knew about it," says the Capital man, his smile dropping and a dangerous glare replacing it, to match mine.

Whoops. "I knew Beetee was up to something. I didn't know what. I thought it was fishy, but –"

He interrupts, "You cut the tracker out of Katniss Everdeen's arm. You, Finnick, Beetee … you were all trying to save Peeta."

_But we failed. Cause he's with you, isn't he?_

"But you failed." The man echoes my thoughts.

"What do you want with me?" I'm almost shouting, spitting at his face.

"What was the plan?" he continues calmly while I rage beside him. It suddenly feels so demeaning, being naked in his presence. If only I had clothes and a half decent knife …

"I don't know and if I did, I'd never tell you!" I scream. Then, I spit on his face.

He goes tomato-red and whispers, and inch away from my face, "We'll see about that."

He storms out of the room, but just before he slams the door, I hear him say, "I promise."

* * *

"_The whole country adores Katniss's little sister. If they really killed her like this, they'd probably have an uprising on their hands. Don't want that, do they? Whole country in rebellion? Wouldn't want anything like that!" Johanna Mason, Catching Fire, pg. 347._

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_**There's more to come and it gets a bit gruesome. I'm thinking of taking a leaf out of history's book … do I need to elaborate?**_

_**Please review, because it makes my day and it motivates me to keep writing!**_


	3. Suki

_**OK, here's the update! I'm sorry it took so long (two words: Science. Studying.), but here it is! PM me if you think I should raise the rating. I'll try to get the next chapter up today too.**_

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_**Disclaimer: Am I Suzanne Collins? No. So it doesn't belong to me.**_

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A shiver runs down my spine as the words which I weren't meant to hear echo through the room. _I promise_. I'm sure this Capitol creep will keep his promise. What the hell. I can't believe I've gotten myself into this mess. Good on you, Johanna.

This room has metal walls, floor and ceiling. The door has already re-camouflaged itself into surrounding wall. I lie in the water, marvelling at its power and staring up at the metal ceiling. So this is what really has power. Water. It can calm me, and yet, with the helpful hand of electricity, it can also utterly destroy me.

My fingers subconsciously make patterns in the water as I wonder who District 13 rescued. Katniss, obviously. They had to have their "Girl on Fire." They probably rescued Peeta as well. Him being the one who was so good at spinning and twisting words to convince you of something. And also for the whole star-crossed lovers from District 12 thing.

Beetee? Finnick? I don't know. Maybe, because they were the other tributes who knew almost all of the rebels' plan.

Enorbaria? I hope not. Maybe they'll torture her here so much that she just _dies_. The thought is one which is pleasant to think, and I can feel myself smiling.

_I should get up._ Yes, I should. _I should see what else there is in here._ Mmm, I agree. _I should see if I can open that door._ Yeah, you're right, I really should.

Instead I just lie here in the water and stark naked, looking up at the ceiling and having a mental debate about whether I should get up or not.

_Johanna? _Yes? _Are you happy?_ No. _Are you sad? _No. _Are you OK?_

God knows.

"You're going to die."

I know.

"Johanna?"

Wait, that wasn't the voice in my head.

"Yes?" I say, my voice hoarse.

"You're going to die in here, Johanna Mason."

_You should stand up and see who's talking to you._ Yeah … nah. _You should._

I do. I stand up and at the door, which is now open, is a girl who looks like she must be only fourteen. Casually blocking the entrance but curiosity brimming in her eyes.

"Johanna?" Capitol accent, I register. Untrustworthy.

But there is something … different about this girl. The Capitol accent is very slight, which is why I didn't identify it at first. And her face … a huge purple birthmark blankets it, covering her cheek and left eye. Maybe this is one of those poor kids who are deemed "not cute enough" by their parents and sold to the Capitol to work as attendants. How did this strange girl, in her too-large grey uniform, end up working at what I presume to be a super-secret, top security building built specifically to torture information out of criminals like me?

"Who are you?" I whisper, not breaking our eye-contact. Her eyes are a deep, dark blue, and they look scared.

"Suki," she says automatically, and then she shakes her head violently. "No. Marion."

"What are you doing here?" I ask, but before she can answer a thin wristband that she wears on her left wrist beeps loudly.

_BEEP. BEEP BBEP-BEEP._

Suki – or Marion – or whatever her name is – looks up from her beeping wristband and back into my eyes. Her blue eyes have widened into saucers and she looks at me as though I'm about to transform into a mutt.

"What happened?" I cry, but she's already backing out of the door, not dropping eye contact as if I'm a wild animal. Maybe I am. "Suki?"

"You're going to die Johanna!" she shouts over her shoulder as she runs away from the open doorway. "You, and the others, and that boy who they're operating on now!"

_Who?_ I wonder. Then I hear it, thanks to the door which is still ajar and swinging on its hinges.

Screaming. Familiar, so familiar, that the name of owner on the tip of my tongue.

"Peeta."

* * *

"_Oh, sure, we're old friends. Peeta and I had adjoining cells in the Capitol. We're very familiar with each other's screams."_ Johanna Mason, Mockingjay.

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_**Cliff-hanger! Had to put it in. But who's this mysterious Suki, or is she Marion? You'll find out soon!**_

_**Review if you want me to update.**_


	4. Johanna

_**I keep promises, so here's the next chapter! Thank you so so so so much to the people who reviewed! You are like stars in the sky – without them the night would be black and menacing – and this story wouldn't exist.**_

_**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I haven't started owning the Hunger Games :(**_

* * *

Oh help. Oh help. Peeta – so he was captured in the arena after all. By the Capitol. And what – what could the Capitol possibly do to – to _extract_ those sounds from him? This is beyond normal screaming. This is beyond the sounds I made when they tortured me. This is … animal like. It's … like he'd rather kill himself than go through it any longer.

"Peeta!" I cry, the name ripping its way out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Bloody hell. Peacekeepers. They hear my voice and are attracted to the sound like bees to pollen. A small group of them, about half a dozen, storm into this room and the rest stay outside. Someone slams the door shut, effectively muting Peeta's screams. The Peacekeepers wrestle me down to the floor. I'm still naked, and I'm afraid – yes, afraid – of them – they're all men. I struggle and bite and kick and run my fingernails down their faces. But they can do more damage to me than I to them. There are six of them. One of me. They wear protective gear designed to cushion them from physical combat. I wear nothing. The get me down, spread-eagled on the floor, and five of them restrain my struggling while the sixth deftly whips a needle out of his pocket.

I begin to scream. I don't know why. It's silly really. You scream so people hear and come and help, right? But the only people who can hear my screams here are the Peacekeepers, and they're the last people in the world who are going to help me.

I have no doubt that the sixth Peacekeeper's intention is to kill me. He might have a drug in that liquid to murder me. He might just need a clear shot at a vein. One of the Peacekeepers shoves a scrap of material in my mouth, but I'm panicking so much that it prevents me from breathing so he pulls it out.

I'm hyperventilating. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't know why, but I want to live.

The Peacekeeper with the needle bends down and says in a soft voice, "Relax, Johanna."

Urgh. Everyone here knows my name. They talk to me like they've known me all my life.

They haven't.

No one has.

The Peacekeeper slowly lowers his needle into position, into the crook of my elbow. I decide to go limp. Hopefully it's a drug that will kill me quickly. If I struggle, this Peacekeeper might get it in the wrong place and mess it up. I don't want that. If – when – I die, I want it to be painless.

He sticks the needle into my arm. I think, _this isn't so bad_, but then he injects whatever it is into my arm, and it burns, it aches and burns so badly that another scream rips itself from my body.

I am conscious of being picked up. _Where are they taking me? The graveyard?_

_But I'm not dead yet._

Little black bugs eat away my vision. _Ah. Here I go. Slipping into oblivion._

It's not that bad, actually. Whatever they shot into me doesn't burn any more, it only aches, a sort of dull, continuous ache which is spreading itself up my arm.

The bugs have gone. I'm lying in a place. A place. A place. That's all I know about it so far. Heaven? Hell? Some twisted limbo in between? God knows.

Should I open my eyes? No, I decide. _You should,_ says the little annoying voice in my head.

Nah. _Go on_.

I open my eyes, to shut up the annoying voice. I thought there was peace in the afterlife? Unless I'm in Hell. I wouldn't be too surprised if I was.

I'm in a place of swirling deep blue mist. The same colour as Suki's eyes, I decide.

_Stand up._

Go away.

_Stand up._

I slowly get to my feet. The mist isn't everywhere after all. It goes up to my waist, and I see now that in it grow strange dead trees with whispering branches. _Whispering secrets_. I remember a story about trees whispering secrets, from my childhood.

Well, I reckon I can rule out being in Hell. And Heaven, for that matter. So I must be in the limbo place, while the gods decide where to put me.

There's no sky, just a sort of lighter mist that hovers in the air. Everything's dark, but I decide to explore.

"Johanna."

The voice comes from up ahead. It sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it. I wander forward and find that my body is as light as air itself. Cautious but curious, I launch myself into the air to find that I can fly – but I need practise and I feel wobbly. I land safely back in the blue mist and wrinkle my forehead as I try to remember. What did I need to do again? The voice reminds me.

"Johaaaannaaaa …."

Oh, that's right. Follow the voice. See where it leads.

I walk briskly, eager to put a finger on who owns the voice. I break into a run but –

"Johanna!"

Bloody hell, it's moved. The voice is the same one but it's behind me now. Angry, I spin around and run that way instead.

"Johanna …"

And now it's coming from two places – up ahead and to my left. I'm torn between which way to go, but within a second I hear the voice calling my name again, except this time I can't place where it came from because it echoes, all around me and it drums into my ears and makes my eyes water and vibrates around my head and makes me want to scream.

"Go away!" I cry, and the blue, misty land is slipping away into the darkness, leaving me here alone with the voice.

"Johanna! Wake up!"

What? I'm asleep? No, that can't be right, because you see, I'm _dead_.

Someone is shaking me and I'm forced to open my eyes. I'm not dead after all. Deep blue, mist-like eyes that I recognise as Suki' stare into my own, looking for a sign over life.

"Johanna!" she says in a loud, rough whisper. "Johanna – don't tell them anything!"

And with that she hugs me quickly and is gone.

* * *

_"Let's each have three, and whoever is still alive at breakfast can take a vote on the rest,"_ Johanna Mason, Catching Fire.

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_**Them? You'll find out soon. But I'll warn you now – if you hate gruesome stuff don't read the next chapter. I'm serious. DON'T.**_

_**On a lighter note, thanks again to all my lovely reviewers who took the time to comment on this story.**_


	5. Torture and Doctor Parwhite

_**Author's Note: Updates really are becoming more consistent! A million and one thanks to reviewers.**_

_**Disclaimer: Does the author of THG live in Australia? No. Do I live in Australia? Yes. Is the author of THG still in school? No. Am I? Yes.**_

_**Hence, I am not the author of the Hunger Games, so obviously I don't own it.**_

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_**WARNING: Are you squeamish or do you hate gory, gruesome stuff? If so, don't read this chapter. Also, there's a bit of – you know – suggestive language as our friend Jo pisses of the Capitol guy. Just thought you should know.**_

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Them? Who? I'm not telling them anything, whoever they are. Suki needn't have worried. But still – if their attempts at getting secrets out of me are as bad as the electric shock, then my resolve is going to be a hard one to keep.

I'm in a padded room, lit by glowing florescent lights on the ceiling. It's small. Very small. I hold my breath before exhaling again because I'm afraid I'll run out of oxygen. I inspect my surrounding and discover that even the floor and ceiling are padded. Probably to prevent me from smashing my head on the floor as hard as I can in the hope of cracking or denting my skull, which, when I think about it, isn't such a bad suicide plan at all.

I run over the list of visitors I've had today on my fingers. One, the creepy Capitol dude who wanted the rebels' secrets. Two, Suki, which I have decided is probably her name, instead of Marion. Then six others, the Peacekeepers who I presume took me to this room. Eight people in total. Wow. I feel so popular. On an average day in District Seven, I'd only get one visitor.

My own reflection.

I slowly become conscious of the fact that I'm dressed. In a thin, green nightgown thing, a bit like a hospital robe really.

I run my fingers over my head in weariness, and I realise with a shock that I'm bald. They must have shaved my head when I was wandering in the land of blue mist and voices calling my name.

I start as a sound interrupts the silence. It's the unmistakable sound of a door opening.

I turn around to see part of the padded wall swing inwards and reveal its true identity. As a door. A man, Capitol by the look of him, steps through the doorway and examines me critically. He's of average height but thin and the white lab coat he's dressed in hangs off his shoulders like they're a coat hanger. I guess binge diets are in at the Capitol at the moment. I mean, in here. I am in the Capitol.

His glasses are balancing on the very tip of his nose, leading me to believe he doesn't actually need them to see properly. He holds a clipboard and pen, and at first glance you'd think he's a scientist. I reckon he is. But he's obviously been employed by the Capitol for much more evil intention than mixing new hair dyes.

He frowns at me and I glare back. I'm not telling him anything. What does he have to make me? Maybe he's a shrink and he wants me to pour all my secrets out to him. Yeah. Right. Like that's going to happen.

"Hello, Johanna Mason," he says in the exact voice I expected. Cold. Calculating. Decisive and sly. "I'm Doctor Parwhite." He extends a hand.

"I'm not going to shake it, you know," I say matter-of-factly. He withdraws his hand and continues to speak.

"I believe you have some secrets to tell me, Johanna."

"Nope," I say, not even trying to lie convincingly. "Not me. You must have the wrong cell."

"If I have the wrong room," says Doctor Parwhite, "And if you're so innocent … then why are you here?"

"I dunno," I say, very untruthfully, "I must've pissed off your boss in some way. Can you think of any?" God, I'm loving this. It's really winding him up.

"Johanna, you don't want to keep secrets from us, do you?" he says, giving me a long cold glare over his glasses and clipboard.

"God, no," I reply in a sincere voice. "The only secret you don't know about me is that I shag randoms behind the library whenever I'm feeling down." Not true. But Hell, it's annoying him.

"You obviously … don't want to comply," he says slowly. "It's a disappointment. We may have to use force to help you understand now."

A chill runs down my spine and settles in my stomach, twisting it into an unpleasant knot. Bloody hell. Good on you, Johanna. Yay.

Doctor Parwhite pressed a button on inside of his sleeve and speaks into it. "We need some … disciplining. Room Four-One-Seven." His eyes flash. "Johanna Mason."

I hear the reply: "Method?"

Doctor Parwhite's mouth twists into a cruel, cold smile. "You choose." Then he presses a button and lowers his arm.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Mason," he says in a voice of mock concern as a register the use of my surname. "It was so – _refreshing_ to meet you. But … it seems we will need to crack that determination of yours. It's for the cause you know."

He walks over and I have absolutely no idea of what he's going to do until he pats my head in a fatherly way. Angry and humiliated, I swipe his hand out the air and bite onto it, drawing blood. He shrieks and stumbles back. I smile now, satisfied that he knows I'm not going to be easy to crack. He stumbles out of the room howling – honestly, these Capitol people would cry if they scraped a knee – and shuts the door firmly after him. They must like sound-proof doors in this place, because they instant he shuts it my room is silent again.

Now I can contemplate my torture in private. Lovely.

I don't have much time to contemplate it though, because less than a minute after Doctor Parwhite's departure, a team of scientists and burly, strong looking men stumble into my room. They wheel in something that looks like a hospital bed and I'm about to start fighting when they wheel in the next thing and it's a trolley, loaded up with surgical instruments and gleaming steel knives. Suddenly I'm frozen with terror.

I'm limp as they lift me up onto the hospital bed. They have restraints, around my waist and legs and arms. They must be pleased I'm not struggling, but the truth is I can't, I can't move a muscle because my gaze is locked on that trolley of evil equipment.

"Johanna," says one of the doctors. "If this becomes too much for you, just say the word and we'll stop. But on one condition. You tell us the plan."

My tongue is moving without my permission, and before I can stop myself it's talking. "Cool. I'll keep it in my mind." Shut up Johanna. _Yeah, you really should shut up, you know_. But I keep talking. "Do I get a lollipop after?"

Bloody hell, that's done me in. Any trace of regret or reluctance has been completely wiped away with those words.

"We'd better get started, then," says one of the big burly man, grinning wildly.

One of the scientists goes over to the trolley and takes out a pair of … I don't know. Tongs? Pliers? Over-sized tweezers? He approaches me and says to one of the men, "Tilt up the chair so she can see." The man he spoke to has an eye patch and an evil smile as he winds something on the side of the bed, tilting my upper half upwards so I can see more than the ceiling. Eye-patch giggles.

"You're in for it, girly," he says, and dread knots my stomach as I realise he's right.

The scientist lowers the pliers, carefully, almost delicately, and I finally see their victim.

My toenails.

I start to scream as he gets a firm grip on the big toenail on my right foot, thrashing my head around and trying to wriggle free. But Eye-patch puts his hands roughly over my head and forces it down, so I'm looking right at my toenail that the scientist has begun to pull out. It hurts so badly, and the sensation of it is horrible, but the worst thing I think is the disgusting knowledge of it all.

He takes care to do it slowly, slowly, wrenching my toenail from the nail bed while I scream and struggle and tears run down my face. Then he carefully deposits my toenail right onto my lap. Yellow and bloody, the sight sends me into even more hysterics.

"And that was just a warning!" shouts Eye-patch over the noise. The whole team of scientists and strong men quickly departed the room and left me there to scream myself to sleep, as I realise just how evil the Capitol is.

* * *

"_I'm alive."_

"_No kidding, brainless."_

Katniss and Johanna, Mockingjay

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_**You were warned! I told you it was nasty. But you have to admire Johanna's spirit and cheek towards the Capitol. Review and tell me what you think of this chapter – was it going too far? I know it was gruesome but hey, this is the Capitol we're talking about.**_


	6. Contemplation

_**A/N: Sorry sorry sorry it took so long! I currently have half yearly exams, and I've been studying every hour I've been awake, and a couple when I was asleep.**_

_**But that's trivial.**_

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_**Disclaimer: How I wish I could own the Hunger Games, and be able to take credit for the many amazing characters – Gale, Katniss, Prim, Rue, Thresh, Finnick, Johanna, Mags, Peeta … **__**Peeta **__**(swoon).**_

_**But unfortunately, I don't.**_

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The next few days are relatively uneventful. I begin to realise how lucky I was to get all those visitors in one day. Now I'm just alone, me and my bitter thoughts.

These bitter thoughts are mainly towards District 13. It's not fair, I know, but I'm angry at them. Why couldn't they have taken me back to their perfect little district as well? Of course they had to have _Katniss,_ girl on _fire_, and I obviously wouldn't have been any help.

Excuse me? I'm from District bloody Seven. I can chop wood, I can handle axes. Surely they need some type of fuel down there, underground and oblivious. Wood? Sure. I'm your girl.

_It's not their fault. Stop blaming them._

Shut up, voice.

_Or you'll … what?_

I'll find who you belong to then I'll drive an axe through your head so it pokes out the other side.

_Alright. You do that, Johanna._

Stop being so patronising. You're not my mother –

My mother.

Sobs suddenly consumed my body, tears streaming down my face like mini waterfalls.

_Mum … where are you?_

And like the thousand other times I'd asked that question, there was no answer.

I roll myself into a ball and rock myself to sleep, trying to escape the painful memories. Yeah. Like that ever worked for me. Instead, they visit me in my nightmares.

Ghosts of all the people I've ever killed, taunted, been horrible to – they all visit me in my dreams. Some of them have a bit to say, a small prepared speech really, and some just spit on me and kick me in the side. Because I'm chained to the little silver trolley they tortured me on. But the room is different – it's really big and on the walls, floor and ceiling, there's a decorative 3D painting, I suppose you'd call it, pretty yellow and white and streaked red.

Then I realize that they're toenails.

The list of people really is quite long, and so is the dream, but there are only a few people who I distinctly remember. Isobel Mornington, the school yard bully, punching me in the stomach and screaming, "You freak! You're so messed up! You're brain's so messed up I don't know how you learned to breathe as a baby! You're such a freak, Johanna Mason!"

Denis Petit, the boy from my district in my first Games, who I eventually had to kill. He walks up slowly and looks at me with those huge, brown forlorn eyes that are swimming with tears and sorrow.

"I was only twelve, Johanna. I hadn't had chance at life. You could have at least given me a chance…"

Doctor Parwhite, looking down at me with a smug expression and spitting on my face.

Stupid old Doris Profette, who I swore at multiple times while I was a mentor in the games, for her idiotic obliviousness and careless nature surrounding the Hunger Games.

"You're too _young_ to _understand_ and _comprehend_ the _wider picture_ of this Johanna."

Little Alice Gardener, my only friend at the orphanage, who one day I slapped when I was in a bad temper. She ran off in tears before I could apologise. Unable to see her way, and fleeing from my cries, she tripped and fell into the river. She couldn't swim, and even if she could, I'm not sure she would have.

I suppose you could say I killed her as well.

I wake from the nightmare which seems to be endless to find myself still curled up in the ball I fell asleep in. I suppose I should untangle myself from this mess a limbs, but I don't want to and I can't see any good reason to.

But that's when I smell it.

Chicken, fresh bread, soups, meat, fried vegetables, fresh fruit … I have a remarkably good sense of smell from lingering outside the kitchens at the orphanage and daydreaming about food, and my nose picks up all this and more.

I spring up – a real feat since I've been curled up in that cramped position for so long – and finally I see the food. It's on a stainless steel tray and the tray alone covers a quarter of the floor space.

Mind you, it's a small room.

But that's trivial. Every square inch, every last bit of silver, is covered in food. My mouth fills with saliva at the sight and smell of it. I swallow quickly, but in vain effort, because it begins watering again before very long.

I take a small, dazed step towards the food, thinking, _This can't be real. I must be dreaming. It's all an illusion_. And then, I realise that it is.

What half decent reason does the Capitol have to spread this beautiful meal out for me, when they're holding me captive? Maybe it's a bribe. Maybe it's poisoned. Maybe it's not real at all, just a hologram or something similar.

My eyes drop, disappointed and ashamed of my mistake. The bitter thoughts towards District 13 come rushing back, a river of anger and regret.

If I didn't owe anyone anything, I could eat this. Poisoned? That's trivial. I could still manage to eat a fair amount of it before the poison kicked in. But I owe District bloody 13. They told me the secrets so I have to keep them that. Secret. I sigh and turn away from the food, full of regret.

God I hate President Coin.

* * *

"_You're cousin's not afraid of me. Are you, gorgeous?" Johanna to Katniss and Gale, Mockingjay, to which Gale replies, "Terrified."_

* * *

_**Fairly uneventful chapter, I know, but I thought it would be good to tone it down a little bit after the whole toenails episode. Next should be a bit more interesting, but not as gory as Chapter 5.**_


	7. Alice Gardener

_**A/N: Guess what? Half-yearlys are over. Happy dance! Here's the next chapter, nothing gory, nothing gross.**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I wish I did.**_

* * *

Nothing happens in the next week. Nothing. The feast mysteriously disappeared overnight and now I have no food. And no water. And the cracks are starting to show.

Delusions, monsters, people who are dead, I know that they're dead, I _saw_ their bodies … these images aren't confined to my nightmares now. I curse everyone as I see things which clearly aren't meant to be there, but uncannily are.

_Bloody Capitol. Bloody President Snow. Bloody District 13. Bloody President Coin. Stupid fickle bloody Katniss Everdeen…._

I go to sleep cursing the people I envy.

Then I awake. At least, I think I'm awake. The ceiling of my cell is bright blue and yellow birds fly and twitter around it, while the walls twist and morph, so I really don't know. I cross my legs and close my eyes tight, hands over my ears in the hope that it will make the delusions away. Maybe it works, because when I open my eyes again the ceiling is back to normal and the birds gone, and the walls only sway slightly. That's better.

I try to recall how long I've been here. My tired brain gives up after ten minutes, and frustrated, I slump against the wall, which, to my surprise, doesn't feel like it's moving at all.

The door is opposite me. I know it's there, even though I can't see it. It's concealed in the wall, but I know it's there. I stare at the blank expanse of wall opposite me dejectedly, wondering how I got into all this mess.

I would rather – and I'd never thought I would even consider this – but I would rather be back in the orphanage than here. Sure Isobel Mornington was an absolute bitch and the Mistresses were cruel – that's what we had to call them, Mistresses – and there wasn't ever enough food on my plate to fill my growling stomach, but there were upsides too. How about when I was seven, and one of our tributes won? Parcel Day was everyone's favourite day, and although the Mistresses saved the best for themselves, we still got meat, and fresh fruit and vegetables.

There was Alice Gardener as well. I met her first when I saw her being bullied in the courtyard by Isobel Mornington. Normally I would turn a blind eye, because if I interfered Isobel would give me a doubly hard time, but this time was different. Alice had just been enrolled into the orphanage. She was "fresh" as us kids who'd been here our whole life would put it. I hadn't taken much notice of her before, but now, when I saw her being bashed apart by Isobel Mornington – it was Alice's "orientation" into the orphanage – my heart was shredded. I'd never cared about anyone except myself until that moment. You don't care about anyone else, unless you have siblings or cousins in the orphanage as well.

Alice's strawberry blonde hair was in two plaits but the first thing I noticed was how small she was. Half Isobel's size, at most. She saw me standing there, and her hazel/green eyes begged for mercy. Something like lightening rushed through me and made my face hot. My hands clenched into fists and I called.

"Hey Mornington!" She half turned around, not used to being interrupted while giving a fresh kid their orientation. Then she saw me and growled, "Mason! I don't know what you were thinking, making me lose my train of thought while giving this rag of a thing its orientation!"

"I was thinking that you were a fat bitch!" I called back, confidence overtaking caution. "And then I realised, _you are._"

Isobel's face flushed. She dropped Alice to the ground with a small _thump!_ and stood up. It was only then that I fully appreciated how tall she is. But instead of a huge lump of fear forming in my stomach like it usually did when she was angry because of me, I saw it, for the very first time, as a challenge. I saw Alice get up and crawl away quickly out of the corner of my eye, but I wasn't concentrating on that. Isobel was the only thing I could see clearly, everything else was a blur.

"You – you –" she spluttered, unable to get the words out. I was pleased. Then she finally managed to get a sentence out. "Mason, I'm gunna make your life hell." Then she stormed away. I was shocked, but relieved.

Alice came up to me the next day.

"Thank you," she said quietly, sitting down next to me at breakfast. "For yesterday. I – I thought she was going to kill me."

"Nah," I said, trying to joke, but my voice sounded different. "She'd never actually kill someone. She just makes you think that she would."

"Thanks anyway," she said. "I'm Alice by the way. Alice Gardener." She extended her hand, and hesitantly, I shook it.

"I'm Johanna," I said. "Johanna Mason."

That was the beginning of a friendship. I soon began to regard Alice as my little sister.

I miss her.

* * *

"_Jealousy is certainly involved. I also think you're a bit hard to swallow. With your tacky romantic drama and your defender-of-the-helpless act. Only it isn't an act, which makes you more unbearable. Please feel free to take this personally." Johanna to Katniss, Mockingjay._

* * *

_**Poor Alice Gardener. It's Rue and Prim all over again.**_

_**Please review, I'm hoping to update soon :D**_


	8. The visitors

_**A/N: I feel like writing, so here's the next chapter! Hope u enjoy it, & please review! :) :) :)  
**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**_

* * *

My serenity and time of being alone didn't last. I didn't think it would, but there was this strange, annoying thing inside me called _hope._ Oh well. At least I'm getting water again.

When I saw the two litre bottle, full to the brim of water, I was too thirsty to care about trivial things like poison. I gulped it down quickly and without a second thought, wondering when I'd get more.

They're giving me water, and plenty of it, regularly now. No food though. Oh well. I'm content enough with water. For now, at least.

I was hoping that they'll just let me while away my time in here humming to myself and drinking their water and slowly going crazy, but of course that would just be too nice for the Capitol. The day after I got the water I also received my first visitor in a week.

A Capitol lady, all dressed up in a fancy blue suit and blonde curls. She wrinkles her noise as she enters. I haven't really been bothered to keep this place in order. Maybe she expected me to. Well that's too bad for her. She'll cope.

I don't really take much notice of her, just keep gulping down my new bottle of water and staring at the wall opposite. Then I have a wicked idea. I'm going to pretend – and it won't take too much acting – to be utterly insane.

"Hellooooooo," I stretch the word out. "It's so nice to seeee you…"

I start humming a tune and swinging my bottle around drunkly.

"H – Hello," she says awkwardly. "I – I'm sure you know why I'm here –"

"Yes of course," I interrupt. "You arrrre … the milkman …. And you're herrree … to milk the cows. They're out the back."

"Johanna," she says, trying and failing miserably to sound reasonable. "I know you know –"

"I know you know," I sing dreamily and tunelessly, "I know you know – I know you know – I know you know they're already milked." I giggle, for the first time in quite a while. "You'd better go back, down the lane, down the lane, down the lane, you'd better go back, down the lane and come back to milk the cows again." I'm having quite a bit of fun. The lady looks alarmed.

"I'll be going then," she says faintly and backs away to the door. "I'll – come back to milk the cows some other time." I continue to sing about milking cows as she opens the door.

"Wait!" I cry suddenly, "Do you know Jeremy?"

She spins around. "Jeremy?" she asks faintly, "Jeremy – Jeremy who?"

"Jeremy Hobbs, of course," I reply in a sing-song voice. She gasps. "Jeremy Hobbs?" Tears come to her eyes when I nod. I've got no idea what I'm talking about, but it's entertaining.

I lower my voice solemnly and say, "He sends his wishes. He's watching over you. Up there." I point to the ceiling. The lady rushes out in tears. I feel bad for a second, then I remember she's from the Capitol.

I get another visitor in five minutes. It's Doctor Parwhite. He looks down at me and shakes his head sadly.

"Poor Ruminee," he says, more to himself than me. "She really thought you were in contact with her late husband."

"Jeremy Hobbs tried to watch over you too," I interrupt, still using the strange, sing-song voice that I presume mad people use. "But he said it was too painful on his eyes." I rub my own eyes, then continue. "He tried, he really did, I swear it."

Doctor Parwhite shakes his head again, a smile creeping onto his face. "Johanna, Johanna," he says, smiling all the while. "We've been monitoring you, and I'm afraid … you haven't gone insane yet."

Damn it. I actually had myself convinced for a bit there.

I drop the silly, insane smile on my face and regain my composure. "So? Why am I suddenly getting all these visitors?" I know the answer, he doesn't need to tell me. But he does.

"Any secrets, Johanna?" he asks, still grinning like the madman he is.

"What secrets are we talking about?" I ask, stringing him along. "You wanna know the nitty-gritty about the randoms behind the library?" He actually looks interested for a second, then he realises that I'm just entertaining myself.

"Maybe another time," he says smoothly, remaining utterly composed. "The secrets we want … are the secrets about District 13."

"Maybe another time," I reply smoothly, giving him a sincere smile.

* * *

"_I don't care if you are knocked up, I'll rip your throat out," Johanna to Katniss, Catching Fire._

* * *

_**Reviews and lollipops are more or less the same. They're both a beautiful gift to give and they both make me smile :D**_


	9. Tell me!

_**A/N: Next chapter! I keep thanking my reviewers, and thank you to you lovely reviewers again, but what really makes me happy is when I'm looking at someone's profile and my story is on their Favourites list! So thank you to reviewers, alerters and favouriters.**_

_**Hope you like this chapter.**_

_**Disclaimer: Surprise, surprise! I don't own the Hunger Games.**_

* * *

Doctor Parwhite glared at me for a few seconds before answering.

"Maybe later," he says in a cold, ominous voice which is strangely calm, "Maybe now."

"Or maybe never," I whisper.

"We'll see," he says coolly, and departs.

I don't have to wait long for my torturers. A team of men, normal at first sight, albeit quite tall and muscular. They could be from District Seven. But when you look again, your eyes spot the differences. A strange glint in their eyes. The way they walk in unison, left foot, right foot, left foot, all at the same time. The strange audible sound their hair makes as it sways in the non-existent wind. Their teeth – sharp, pointed and deadly – revealed when their lips curl back. And then it comes to me in an awful surge of terror.

Human-mutts.

I've seen or even heard of them before but the instant the words spring into my mind I know they're true. Doctor Parwhite hasn't accompanied them here, so they must be even deadlier than the usual mutt. Of course they're deadlier – they're more human than animal – they can think.

I want to say something witty or sarcastic but the words stick to my throat and I know they would have been wasted anyway. No words of wisdom could sway these part human creatures which have probably been designed especially for me. Well, I must say I do feel spoilt. A whole team of mutts, designed just for me. Yay.

They begin to growl. Low, menacing growls which make their top lips curl back to reveal those teeth. I'm sure they're not meant to kill me, at least not until I've spilled the secrets. My stomach begins to quiver in fear – I hate mutts. Tracker jackers, the awful wolf mutts they had at the 74th Games, jabberjays, you name it, I hate it. But these are … different. Because all the other mutts that I can name, they were all mostly animal. Some of them had a bit of human in them but they were still mostly animal. Unlike these.

The one in front, the largest one, takes the first swipe at me with those out-of-proportion hands. Right in the chest, making me fall and sprawl on the ground. My chest hurts, it aches, I can tell that there will be a massive bruise there later.

It lets out a growl. "Tell me!" it commands, its voice loud and menacing.

"No!" I cry, gasping for breath.

The other mutts get down onto their hands and knees while the largest remains standing. They suddenly become more animal-like. I'm not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. They hiss, long, drawn out and terrible. I can't make out the words at first. Then it all suddenly clicks into place.

_Tellll meeeee …. Tellll meeeee …._

"No!" I cry out again, "Never!" All the mutts are on hands and knees now, no, not knees but feet, and they're prowling around me and hissing in those awful voices.

_Tellll meeeee …. Tellll meeeee …._

Occasionally on of them swipes out at me with a paw. Not a hand, a paw. They're rapidly deteriorating from fairly normal humans to nightmarish creatures in the fairy tale you wish you'd never heard. Their blows are powerful and each of them is so painful that I'm sure I'll be as colourful as the Capitol attire by the time they're finished with me.

_Tellll meeeee …. Tellll meeeee …._

I'm lying spread-eagled on the floor of my cell; too broken and battered to do anything more than stare up at the ceiling and wish for it to stop. The mutts circle me, hissing and sometimes howling a long, terrible howl, like the howls we sometimes heard late at night when we were in bed at the orphanage. The mistresses would rush in and cover us in towels. They'd beg us not to say a word, and to scared to do anything but obey, we'd sit bolt upright in our beds, clutching the towels and blankets and cowering against the walls until the howling stopped. Even then we'd often not get any sleep that night.

I suppose I pass out at some point, because after a nightmare in which everyone I knew turned into human-mutts, I come to. The mutts are gone. The only trace that they were ever there in the first place is the streaks of blood on the floor and the words, which seem to still be echoing around my cell.

_Tell me …_

* * *

"_The impact ruptured your spleen. They couldn't repair it. Don't worry, you don't need one anyway." Johanna Mason, Mockingjay._

* * *

_**I really liked writing this chapter, so I hope you liked reading it. It was good to have some action after a couple of chapters of Jo being just depressed.**_

_**Please review! :D**_


	10. Suki Again

_**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Prim12. Thank you so much for all your positive reviews which have motivated me to keep writing!**_

_**Thank you to all my reviewers, subscribers and favouriters. You are truly awesome!**_

_**I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter, the internet wasn't working for ages and it was really annoying cos I wanted to get this chapter up. But it's done now.**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**_

* * *

The streaks of blood on the floor disappear mysteriously overnight. The cuts, sores and bruises on my body, however, are still there. I'm sore and aching and miserable and depressed and wondering how I can commit suicide.

I could just not eat. They send me a tiny basket of food each day. It usually contains a litre of water, a couple of slices of bread with this strange-tasting cheese spread on top, and sometimes, if I'm lucky, a piece of fruit. I've committed to memory the fruit I've gotten so far – two plums and a pear – and I day dream about them often.

But I can't stop eating. I love food. The only time I've ever refused food is when I didn't eat that feast of theirs. It was painful. I can't do that on a daily basis.

Thankfully, I get a visitor to distract me after about an hour of fantasising about killing myself. I hear the door open behind me and think, _Great. Who's hear to wring information out of me now?_ But then I hear a voice which I didn't think I'd ever hear again.

"Johanna?" Shy, hesitant, unsure … it's Suki.

"Suki?" I gasp in astonishment and spin around. Never thought I'd see this little girl again. She sure is persistent. "What are you doing here?"

She looks down at the floor and twists her hands together nervously. "I – well – I wanted to talk to you." Then she looks up at me, and sees the whole picture, bruised and battered and beyond repair. I suppose I do look pretty bad. "They hurt you?"

"Yeah," I reply grimly. "But that doesn't matter." I see her flinch. Of course it matters. "Well, I guess it does. But why did you want to talk with me? And won't you get in trouble?" I don't need to say from who.

Suki closes the door gently and sits down opposite me, in one of the few patches of floor which isn't covered in filth. "No. Today's Sunday, I don't have to work. I get the day off, to do what I like. So – so I said I wanted to visit one of the prisoners."

"You did?" I gasp, "What did they say to that?"

"They were a bit funny about it," Suki admits, "At first, anyway. But eventually they let me through."

"Isn't there protocol? Didn't you have to say who you were visiting?"

"Oh no," replied Suki with a wry smile. "The Capitol employed me to work for them, when otherwise I would have had to live on the streets. They feed me and give me clothes and money. They gave me a place to sleep. They reckon I'm so grateful I couldn't possibly do anything wrong."

"Poor, thoughtless, trusting lambs," I sigh absentmindedly. I'm surprised when Suki giggles.

"But why did you want to visit me?" I press on.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Well…" she says, staring at the ground. "I wanted to know how you got in this mess."

Without a moment's hesitation, I tell her everything. The orphanage back in Seven, Isobel Mornington the school-yard bully, getting reaped for my first games, winning them, being a mentor then getting unexpectedly reaped for the 75th Hunger Games. Meeting Katniss and Peeta. The intricate plan of District Thirteen. I tell her the plan without hesitation. Before long, I've told her everything about me while I know nothing about her and still I tell her the entire plan without hesitation. Then I suddenly think of something.

"Wait …" I say, my heart suddenly racing and my stomach twisting in panic. "Is this room bugged?"

"No," Suki assures me. "They tried bugging the rooms a few years back and all they got was screaming and the repetitive chanting of mad people."

"Thank God that happened," I say, relieved.

"Johanna?" says Suki after a moment's hesitation, "Do you trust me?"

"Of course I do, silly," I reply, laughing, "Didn't I just tell you my whole life story? Anyway, it means I can ask you any question and you have to answer it."

"Go on," says Suki, grinning.

"Well," I say, "To start off, what's your real name? Is it Suki or Marion?"

"It's Suki," she replies. "Marion … that's what _they_ always wanted me to call them."

"The Capitol?"

She shakes her head. I can see fear in her eyes.

"Suki …" I say slowly, "What … what happened to you?"

She takes a deep breath, and begins.

* * *

"_Peeta started arguing with himself like he was two people. They had to drag him away. On the plus side, no one noticed that I finished his lunch." Johanna Mason, Mockingjay._

* * *

_**Suki's story is the next chapter. I'm so excited, I can't wait to write it! Be prepared for a whole lot of dark secrets to be spilled.**_

_**Please review.**_


	11. Suki's story

_**A/N: Suki's story is here! Thanks to all reviewers, favouriters, etc.**_

_**And also, quick note, Suki is VERY similar to Prim and Rue. Think that sentence over. VERY.**_

_**Disclaimer: I haven't started owning the Hunger Games.**_

* * *

_She takes a deep breath, and begins._

My parents loved me when they were alive. At least, that's what Thomas and Patricia always told me. They had adopted me when I was three. I had no recollection of my real parents. I always imagined them as loving, kind, supportive parents, but once when I was eavesdropping on Thomas and Patricia's conversation in the kitchen, when I was supposed to be upstairs in bed, I realised differently. My parents hadn't been poor. They hadn't died of disease. My parents had opposed the Capitol's morals, so hence they were executed.

I stood frozen, my ear against the door, unable to move. My parents had been killed because they'd opposed the Capitol's morals? I made a vow then, to be totally true to the Capitol. I didn't want to take after my parents.

Thomas and Patricia had no children of their own. I had an older brother (although we weren't blood-related) who Thomas and Patricia had adopted four years before they adopted me. He was six years older than me. His name was Henri.

Henri was tall, athletic, strong, good-looking. Thomas and Patricia were proud to have him as their "son". But they weren't proud of me, even though they never told me. I could tell.

Thomas and Patricia never loved me like real parents would. They were ashamed, I think, of my lack of accent and my birthmark. Also I wasn't like the other kids. I didn't like playing the same games as them.

I had one friend in my first year of school, I remember. His name was Dylan. I think I was sort of drawn to him because he also had a birthmark covering his face, though not as obvious as mine. But we were so different in ways I couldn't have possibly predicted.

"Let's play factories," Dylan suggested one day when we were quietly driving toy trucks across the sand in the sandpit of our school. "My factory can make cakes. What will your factory make?"

"My factory will make guns," I said eagerly, piling the sand up into a mound to get started. "Big, big guns. I am the boss of the factory and when one gun is finished I take it and go to a District where the people are not obeying us and I will shoot them all. Pow pow pow."

Dylan wrinkled his nose. "You always want to play war games," he protested. "War games aren't fun. Why do you want to kill the people?"

"Because they have opposed the Capitol's morals," I replied stiffly, piling more sand onto my mound and not looking at Dylan. "That's what happens to people who don't obey us, you know," I added superiorly.

"But if you kill all the people in the Districts, we would have to make our own food," said Dylan, trying to be reasonable. "Can we just play factories now? Factories that make cakes, not guns. Big, yummy, chocolate cakes …" He trailed off, his eyes dreamy. I was suddenly angry at my only friend. I stood up and glared down at him, furious, although I hardly knew why.

"You never take things seriously!" I shouted at him, the anger building to a terrible climax. "You never do! This is a very serious thing, Dylan; there are people in the Districts and even the Capitol who are not doing what they are meant to! And if we don't kill them all – pow pow pow! – then they will kill us!" I finished, slightly breathless and suddenly scared. Dylan looked up at me, eyes glistening.

"Well," he said quietly, looking down at the sand again. "I don't think we should be friends anymore. And if we aren't friends anymore, that means I can say what I want to _you_." He stood up to face me, and I trembled, terrified at what he was going to say.

"You always choose the games, and you always choose games where we have to go to the Districts and the prisons in the Capitol and kill people, and I don't like those games because I don't like killing people." His voice rose a little. "You always make me do what _you_ want to do and I don't like doing it and we hardly ever get to play games that are actually fun, like cake factories!" Then he stormed off. Tears glistened in my eyes as I realised what a huge mistake I had made.

I became less obsessed with killing rebels after that. I began to accept my parents more. But still I was a loner at school, without even Dylan to keep me company, and at home I was more withdrawn than ever.

Dylan came to school a month after our argument completely altered. His birthmark had disappeared.

"What happened to your face?" I gasped when I saw him, unable to restrain myself. He smiled smugly.

"Plastic surgery," he said. "By a professional."

I was angry at him, but also jealous. I decided to ask Thomas and Patricia if I could have my birthmark surgically removed too. I was sure they'd say yes. They wanted me to be perfect like Henri, after all.

But I never got the chance to ask.

I got home that afternoon to find the house in disarray. "What's happened?" I called out to Patricia, who was hurrying into the lounge room with a ready-to-burst suitcase. She didn't answer, so I followed her.

"Patricia, what's happening?" I asked again. I never called her Mum.

"Well," said Patricia, brushing the hair out of her face. "You Aunt Tia has decided she wants a daughter."

"So?" I asked, wondering why this was relevant.

"So," said Patricia, "I thought and thought and finally I came up with the best idea. She can have you!" she finished, beaming and evidently pleased with herself.

"She can have me?" I echoed dully, meaning forcing itself into the words. "So … I won't live here anymore?"

"Of course you won't, you silly child," scolded Patricia, busy fixing her hair and admiring herself in the mirror. "Now, I've packed all of your things," she indicated the suitcase, "which is very considerate of me, and Tia will come to pick you up tomorrow!"

Suki broke off, tears streaming down her cheeks and sobs escaping her. "Oh, it'll be alright," I mumbled, leaning forward and embracing her roughly, finally understanding. At least, beginning to understand. Suki returned the embrace and we sat there for a while just hugging, until the band on Suki's wrist interrupted the near-silence.

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP-BEEP_.

"I've got to go now," sniffles Suki, breaking away and standing up.

"Come back soon," I beg, watching helplessly as she opens the door and leaves.

* * *

"_It doesn't matter. You had to tell us or we never would have moved our camp in the first place, brainless," Johanna Mason, Catching Fire._

* * *

_**That's not the end of Suki's story – there's more to come. More secrets to be revealed – and – the closer Johanna and Suki will get.**_

_**Please please please do Suki justice and review.**_


	12. Electricity

_**A/N: So sorry I haven't updated until today! I've been working on a one-shot about Katniss's mother and father (don't know when it'll be finished) so I haven't had enough time for this until now!**_

_**Thanks a 6.5 billion times over to reviewers, subscribers and favouriters. You are BEAUTIFUL!**_

_**Disclaimer: Surprise, surprise! I don't own the Hunger Games.**_

* * *

After Suki had left, I sat wondering for what must have been several hours. I didn't move from the spot.

I thought I understood – or, at least, was beginning to understand – how Suki wound up in this place. I still didn't get why she called herself Marion. But she had promised to come back – and when she did, I was going to get her to tell me more.

But I wondered … it sounded like Suki hated rebels. Rebels like _me_. People who "opposed the Capitol's morals" as she had put it. Was it possible that I had been mistaken in trusting her with District 13's plan? Was it possible she was reporting it right now? Hell, it was possible. Now I'm scared.

I don't want to be labelled, in decade's time, as "that Johanna Mason who gave away all District 13's secrets." God, no.

I fall asleep, eventually. And when I wake up, I'm not in my cell. When I wake up, I'm naked. When I wake up, I'm surrounded by water.

When I wake up … I'm in _that room_.

I remember this room. I remember this glass pool of water, sitting on top of a tiled floor. I remember that set of controls over there. I remember the man arming them, playing with a couple of switches, evidently bored and waiting for me to wake up. I remember his sudden alertness, as he realises I've come to. I remember him quickly flicking a switch, and I remember my confusion, then dread.

These memories flash through my mind like a silent movie, so quickly that they're finished long before the man arming the control panel notices me. But then suddenly he looks up from fiddling with something in his hand, an elastic band I think, and our eyes lock. I suddenly notice his eyes; I suddenly notice everything more acutely now that I know what's going to happen next. His eyes are grey, empty, expressionless, bored.

He looks down at the control panel and doesn't even bother himself to rush. He must know I'm not going anywhere. He carefully adjusts a couple of dials and checks a gauge while I look on in horror. Then it appears that the machine is ready. He looks up at me, smiles, and flicks the switch.

I expect instant pain, like last time, but it appears that this machine, whatever it is, is on a different setting this time. I float in the water almost peacefully for a few seconds while, I presume, the water is being charged with electricity, but something feels different. The water is slowly heating up, except the heat – no, the _type_ of heat – is not the same as bath water. I can't describe it. All I know is that it is rapidly heating up in its own strange way.

It's really agitating; actually, it feels _really _strange.

And then the true purpose of this torture kicks in and I understand.

Zap. Zap. Zap. Three sharp, short shocks of electricity that leave me breathless.

"Now," rumbles the man at the control unit in a gravelly voice as the cool water rapidly heats up again. I'd forgotten about him for a while there. "Are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?" I don't bother answering, and in one of those moments of total insanity my mind screams, _cliché!_

"Well," he says, more to himself than me, "I guess that decides that then." He adjusts another few dials on the control unit, and back comes the electricity.

_Zap! Zap! Zap! Zap!_ Four shots this time, obviously charged with more electricity than last time. They're agonizing, and leave me gasping and with a stitch, like I've just run a marathon.

"Stop!" I call despite myself, seeing the horrifying vision of the man slowly lowering his hand down to the control unit, ready to initiate more electricity. "Wait!"

He looks up and raises his eyebrows as if to say, _Really? You're going to tell me all of District 13's secrets?_ He shrugs again, and I can see he's thinking, _That wasn't too hard._

It infuriates me, even though he never said the words aloud. All of a sudden I'm speaking, although I'm aware that the words coming out of my mouth are not my own. "Go on." I say, and grit my teeth. I didn't say that. I didn't intend to say those words. I wasn't even thinking them. Then I realise who _did_ say them – the voice in my head which I have now named Courage.

"Go on," I say again, louder this time. And this time it's not Courage speaking, it's me. I don't need prompting from that annoying voice in my head. "What are you waiting for?" I can hear Courage cheering in my head, and others cheering with it – Trust, Determination and Stubbornness. I decide to befriend the latter.

_My, Johanna, you are going crazy_.

Don't worry, Courage. I've known that for a long time.

The man decides I'm not bluffing, steps back to the control unit, presses a button.

And when the pain comes, I'm ready for it.

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'_The water has transformed from a safe haven of oblivion to … to … swimming in electricity.' – Johanna Mason, Water, Torture, Slaughter, Chapter Two._

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_**Well, there it is. Hope you liked it, but I was a bit rushed when I wrote it, so it's not very good.**_

_**Please, please, please, please (I really can't repeat that word as many times as I'd like to, cos it would just make this chapter heaps longer), anyway, please review. But no pressure. Honestly, none!**_


	13. Aunt Tia

_**A/N: Argh! I'm so sorry! Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry! I know I haven't updated in forever and a day, and the worst thing is, I haven't even got a half-decent excuse. I don't have any excuse at all, 'smatter of fact. So I made this chapter longer than usual for you. But anyways, THANK YOU for reviewing even though I didn't update like I should have, and ON WITH THE STORY!**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own it. I only own Suki. :)**_

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They still haven't gotten me to tell them anything. Not the original plan devised by District 13, not any of their future plans which apparently I know all about. I feel momentarily proud of myself, then I remind myself that there is absolutely no reason whatsoever to be proud, because surely they will find some way of hurting me even more. _Hurting me_. Such appropriate words, since it's not just physically that the Capitol is torturing me, making me break apart. I remember the morphlings from District 6 in the Quarter Quell. I envy them. They must have had a nice life.

I get an unexpected visit the day after they put me back in the water. Or maybe had expected it. No, I hadn't, I'd hoped I'd get a visitor, not a vulgar one such as Doctor Parwhite or the person he called Ruminee, but the little girl I've begin to think of as my only friend in this world, Suki, yes I'd _hoped_ I would get that visitor, but I hadn't actually _expected_ it.

I get a visitor nonetheless, and it is none other than the strange, kind little girl I've grown a soft spot for – Suki. I literally jump up and down and clap my hands enthusiastically when she opens the door which is concealed in the wall, glancing over her shoulder as she closes it again.

"Shhh," she begs, her eyes worried. "I might get caught." I sober up immediately.

"You aren't meant to be here?" I guess. She nods forlornly. "Sit down," I continue, attempting to rouse long-dead manners. Suki wrinkles her nose slightly but sits opposite me none the less. "Well?" I say, slightly impatient.

"Well what?" Suki replies, confusion evident in her eyes.

"Well …" I pause, trying to phrase it properly, "Well … what happens next?"

"In what?" Suki says a little desperately and I get the feeling she's dogging the question.

"What happened next … to _you_?" I blurt out.

"Oh … that …" Suki stammers. "I guess – if you really – where exactly did I leave off?" I have the answer ready immediately.

"Your step-parents, Thomas and Patricia, right? Well, they basically stranded you cos of your face and left you in the care of your 'Aunt Tia'. Right?"

"Right," Suki confirms, and gulps. I simply wait impatiently for her to begin.

"Well….."

Aunt Tia was … different to Thomas and Patricia. Eccentric, I guess. To the people of the Capitol, anyway. Because Aunt Tia saved her money. She didn't spend it on useless things like our neighbours, she liked to save.

"She doesn't spend _any _money, I've heard," a neighbour confided in me once, the day I arrived at her minute house. "Strange. Unnatural, like." I thought we'd get on well – I didn't care much for royalty – but it turned out I was tragically wrong. Her neighbour was right when he said she was "strange".

Aunt Tia … well, she had these strange rituals. She didn't like me at all to start off with. In her opinion, I was a "small unnatural being." One of her rituals was making preservatives and jams and such once a year. But she'd never use them; she'd just leave them on the shelf looking pretty till it was time to chuck them out.

When her neighbour had said she didn't spend any money, he was downright lying. Because what he said was a serious understatement. Aunt Tia had plenty of money stored away in the bank, she just never spent any of it. We barely scraped by and I'd catch myself staring at those jars of jam lining the walls and day-dreaming about opening one and eating it all with just my fingers.

Aunt Tia also didn't approve sending me to school. "Useless waste of time," she snapped, "time and …" she paused, her eyes growing wide with horror, "_money_."

"God forbid," I mutter. "Oh, sorry for interrupting. Go on."

Suki takes a deep breath.

Despite being completely estranged from all social circles, Aunt Tia had friends. I never saw any of them though. She'd open the linen cupboard up half-an-hour before they were going to arrive, then she'd take the linen out of the bottom shelf and tell me to curl up and squish myself inside. I did it without question. I was too scared to question.

But the reason I never saw Aunt Tia's friends wasn't because she looked me up in the bottom shelf of the linen cupboard for hours on end until I started panicking because it felt like all the air had run out, the reason I never saw them was because Aunt Tia _didn't_ have friends. No one saw them. No one would have known them either, because in truth they were only visible to Aunt Tia. Understand?

I nod. Suki goes on.

Aunt Tia also didn't like my name. She said it wasn't a proper name, so she called me Marion. So Marion I was. I wasn't even allowed to _think_ of myself as "Suki".

After being "looked after" by Aunt Tia for three years, she finally disposed of me.

"Yes, disposed," says Suki in response to my horrified look, "Disposed is the right word."

She told me one day that I was too much money to keep. She was going to sell me to the Capitol to be a servant for the tributes in future Hunger Games. She said she had been thinking about it for a while. I wasn't too surprised, really. She would be getting a profit from it after all.

The majority of the servants to the Capitol are Avoxes – you know that – but there are also a few people like me, people whose families rejected them, disowned them, sold them to the rulers of the Capitol. We are exactly the same as the Avoxes except we can speak – they don't cut _our _tongues out.

Anyway, when Aunt Tia finally got the letter with details about where I would work, what the hours would be, the board, etc., she was ecstatic. So excited, indeed, that she didn't read the letter properly and hence didn't notice that I would not be working for future tributes to the Hunger Games, like she had put down on my enrolment form.

They must have gotten forms mixed up, or not had enough servants to work _here_, because instead of being sent to the middle of the city, I was sent to the outskirts, no, beyond the outskirts, to _this place_. I hadn't known until the train pulled up in the station, and I glanced down to my ticket to realise that I had to get off there. But anyway – that's how I ended up working here.

The screams, the human misery and helplessness of rebels from both the Capitol and the Districts alike prevented me from hating rebels any further. And Jo? The last of that hatred burned away when I saw you.

Suki looks down at her hands, her story complete. "That's it," she says to break the silence. But I get the feeling that there's more. I don't want her to finish today though. She's done her fair bit.

"So this place is on the outskirts of the Capitol," I say, trying to make sense of it all. Suki nods. "Any chance of escape?" I add hopefully.

"Nope," says Suki bluntly, extinguishing my last hope. "But don't worry, Jo. The odds have to be in your favour at least once."

"Yours too," I say, smiling wryly. She returns the smile.

"Hey, Jo …" ventures Suki cautiously.

"Yeah?"

"Can I tell you a secret?" She looks up at with those big, blue eyes of hers. I think for a moment. District 13 trusted me with some of their secrets. God, I've trusted myself with _all_ of my secrets. Suki trusted me with her life story, the majority of it at least. "Yeah, I reckon you can."

"I'm going to escape from this place," she says, a glint of excitement in her eye. I laugh – she's kidding, right? But then I realise Suki's dead serious about this, so I sober up immediately.

"I thought you said there was no way out?" I say finally.

"Well … that wasn't the entire truth. There's no way I'm absolutely sure of. But there are a couple … which might just work … if we play the cards right."

"We?" I laugh again, but grimly this time. "You can get out of here, I can't. It's not like you're locked away 24/7." Suki flinches involuntarily, as if an ugly memory has just resurfaced. I pretend not to notice it.

"_I_ thought it was a good idea," she says to herself in a small voice. I look up at her face to see that tears have risen in her eyes.

"Oh no, don't – I mean – it _is _a good idea," I stammer, trying to comfort her. "If – if we – _play the cards right_." I finish. Suki looks up at me and smiles a small smile through thick, hot tears.

"I ought to go now," she sniffles, even though the band on her wrist hasn't beeped yet. She gets up and exits, closing the door behind her while wiping her eyes on her sleeve. I curl up of my side and stare blankly and the patch of wall where the door is. The last words that enter my head before I enter a heavy kind of doze are; _Good luck, Suki. Good luck, little friend. God help us through this mess._

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_But there is something … different about this girl._ Water, Torture, Slaughter, Chapter 3.

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_**Well, there it is. Review, as always, and I'd love some constructive criticism. By the way, the strange thing where Aunt Tia makes jams but never uses them, how she just lines them up to look pretty, that's true. That's one of the weird things my Grandmother's step-mother did. Shiver…**_

_**Anyway, you guys are great, thank you so much for supporting me!**_


	14. The secret

_**Another chapter already! Wow, I am surprising myself! By the way, in Jo's dream, that isn't what "Aunt Tia" really looks like, just how Jo imagines her. **_

_**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise? I don't own it.**_

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My dreams are plagued by monsters and demons allsorts. Aunt Tia comes around to my house in Victor's Village to visit. Her iridescent purple hair is teased and her eyes are bright green like grass. The pupils in her eyes aren't circles; they're slits like a cat's.

"I brought friends!" Aunt Tia screeches gestures to the thin air behind her. "This one's Abbey Cardigan, then behind her is Billy Rye, and next to him is Jenny Smith …" She introduces every last one of her friends, and yet I can't see any of them. I reach for a pair of glasses on the side table and put them on. Instantly the room changes – there are stains of blood on the walls and there is no ceiling, it has burnt away. I can also see Aunt Tia's friends now – they mutter darkly amongst themselves, making sinister plans. One has a long, long cat's tail, another sports bull's horns and a young lady's pretty face is spoiled by insect eyes. I gasp involuntarily and leap back; the glasses slip off the ridge of my nose and fall to the ground with a terrible crash. The room turns back to normal and I can no longer see Aunt Tia's friends, although I know now that they are there.

"What's the matter?" snaps Aunt Tia, annoyed at being interrupted in her introductions.

"N – Nothing," I stammer, using my right foot to carefully and discreetly move the shards of glass and metal rim of the glasses under the side table.

"Hold my cat, then," says the old lady irritably, picking up something, presumably her cat, from the ground. The only problem is that, like her friends, Aunt Tia's cat is invisible. She hands it over to me and I take the vacant air in my hands, drawing it to my chest and pretending to stroke it.

"Stupid child!" Aunt Tia screeches, "You dropped her!" She starts sobbing, and in between sobs, manages to say, "Tabby cost so much money … to be wasted away like that … stupid child!" She looks at me directly in the eyes and her gaze pierces me. Aunt Tia storms over to me and grabs my right ear, yanking me forward by it. In her haste she knocks over the side table and the broken glasses are revealed. Aunt Tia doesn't see them, but as she pulls me by my ear out of the hall, I see the pieces of glass being picked up and turned around. _Those are her friends doing that_, I think. _They're examining it!_

Aunt Tia's grip on my ear tightens. She jerks to a halt and opens a cupboard. Still gripping my ear with surprising force, she crouches down and pulls all the sheets and towels out of the cupboard. Then she shoves me into the bottom shelf, now vacant of linen, slams the door and bolts it from the outside. I hear her shrill laugh and a few embarrassed explanations to her friends, then all the sound dies away.

The darkness presses down on me. Time passes differently than it usually does. Somehow I fall into a kind of doze, and when I wake, I have no idea how long I've been locked in the cupboard. My legs are dead. In fact, my whole body is dead. After a while, my breathing becomes laboured. The oxygen is running out – every breath I take makes my head spin.

"Let me out," I croak, but even I barely hear it. Then suddenly I hear the creak of the bolt being drawn, the handle of the door being turned. I tumble out of the linen cupboard onto the carpet and into blessed cool air. I take in a few deep breaths before looking up at my saviour.

"Hello, Johanna," says President Snow.

I wake up screaming. Then I realise I'm not in my usual cell, and I keep screaming. My head still feels funny after the dream, so it takes a few moments for my eyes to focus properly. When finally they do, my breath catches. I'm in _that room_.

Not in the water yet, but undoubtedly I will be before long. I try to struggle up and only then do I realise that I'm chained to the floor.

"Oh, she's awake," says a bored voice to my left. I turn my head to see the control panel with the man arming it, and a woman holding a clipboard whose voice I heard. She looks familiar …

"Ruminee!" I gasp, realising. Poor girl. This is the one I amused myself teasing about Jeremy Hobbs. Except she looks slightly different – oh, she's dyed her hair, it's dark blonde now instead of light blonde.

The woman looks up from her notes and gives me a piercing glare which reminds me of my dream. I shiver.

"Ruminee?" The woman asks in a bored voice. "No indeed. Ruminee is my sister – I am Cassandra. No doubt you are the one who thoughtlessly brought up the subject of her late fiancé, Jeremy Hobbs?" I just stare at her dumbly and after a few moments she returns to her notes with a disapproving sniff.

"So, miss?" asks the man at the control panel. He is a different person from last time. A bit chubby, boyish blue eyes and straw-coloured hair that sticks up everywhere. He looks at Cassandra eagerly. "Permission, miss?"

"A second, if you please, Zachary," says Cassandra distractedly. "Well … if we attempted Method C16 … it seems the subject in question is vulnerable to the methods in Section C …" I get annoyed. 'The subject' – I'm guessing that's me.

"Oi!" I shout from across the room, "I haven't stopped existing here!"

Cassandra looks up at me with cold eyes. "That," she says delicately, "Is what we are trying to initiate." Her fancy-talk and superior manner mean that it takes me a little while to figure out what she means – _Oh. She wants to stop my existence_.

Cassandra and the fidgety, eager assistant, Zachary, talk quietly for a few minutes longer while I attempt to struggle out of my chains. It's useless though. The only thing I can really move properly is my head, and what's the use in that? Finally Cassandra and Zachary stop talking and simply look at me, considering.

"Well?" I snap impatiently. The two Capitol citizens seem to realize themselves and go back to talking quietly. Except this time I don't struggle, but strain to listen, and I pick up a few scraps of conversation.

"She seems rather determined," whispers Zachary worriedly. "I'm not sure there will be a way to … how did you put it? - _crack_ her."

"Oh, don't you worry," assured Cassandra with a confident smile. "I've been doing some … research … and I've discovered some very interesting things …" she finishes elusively.

"What sort of things?" whispers Zachary, edging closer to the woman. I try to edge closer too, but just when Cassandra opens her mouth to speak, my chains _clink_ and she shakes her head.

"Later," she intones, "Over coffee, perhaps?"

"Oh!" Zachary cries, evidently delighted. "Coffee – you and me and –"

"And a rather nasty lot of business that needs to be attended to," Cassandra finishes for him, shooting me a venomous look.

"Oh! Of course mi – _Cassandra_," says Zachary hurriedly. Cassandra leaves, smiling smugly. Zachary walks over to me, his steps slow, purposeful. He leans down to whisper in my ear. "Don't spoil my chances, okay?" I try to bite him but he jerks his head up in time. "Lucky!" I spit, infuriated.

Zachary walks back to the control panel. _Oh God,_ I think. _Not this again, please not this again!_ Zachary pulls out a small black radio, and after fiddling with a few buttons to remove the static. He opens his mouth to speak.

"Please!" I cry out despite myself, "Please, don't!" I start sobbing, "Oh, don't do it again, I – I –"

Zachary walks back over to where I lie, chained to the floor and utterly hopeless. "Any secrets?" he asks, a horrible smile creeping up onto his face.

"Yes – yes!" I sob, as a huge pit of despair forms inside of me.

"Continue?"

"Well – for starters – yes, I knew about the plan which was carried out in the arena. I _was_ a part of it, but –" I falter suddenly, "That's all I can tell you," I finish, and then hurry on in response to the look on Zachary's face; "I mean – I didn't _know_ anything else. I knew the majority of the plan for the arena – most of the tributes did, except for the Careers, and Katniss and Peeta," I stop, and swallow, "But they didn't tell us anything else. I swear!" It is the truth.

"Well … won't President Snow be so happy to discover we've finally _cracked_ you!" squeals Zachary in delight. Then suddenly he has a thought, "So will Cassandra, but – oh –" his face falls, "we might not still have coffee …" Zachary pulls the small black radio out of his pocket again and fiddles around with dials and switches. Eventually he gets a signal.

"Hello?" says the fidgety Capitol assistant eagerly, "Yes – Hestone one-nine-nine here … an urge – very important message for the President."

I hear the reply, "The president? You want me to put yeh right over to the President? Buddy, are you givin' me cheek?"

"Cheek?" asks Zachary anxiously, "Oh no sir, very important, very serious …"

"Who did yeh say you were?" asks the radio.

"Hestone – Hestone one-nine-nine – we've had a breakthrough with the subject Mason." He glares down at me. I spit in his face. "Argh!" Zachary shrieks, and stumbles away.

"You sure this ain't a prank?" asks the person on the radio.

"No – no, sir! Mason has revealed a secret – The Secret!" I feel my cheeks flush in anger and guilt.

"_The_ secret, eh? Right, I'll put you on to the President's secretary-" he mutters something unintelligible, "-and they'll decide if it's anything of importance." The line goes dead for a few minutes and Zachary jumps from one foot to the other nervously while I become hot and impatient and start struggling with the chains again.

Finally, a high-pitched woman's voice comes out of the radio, "Hello? Matter of importance, I've heard. Something to do with Mason?"

"Oh, yes, miss!" cries Zachary gleefully. He then relays everything I said, word for word, to the secretary. Once he is finished, there is a very long silence.

"Well," says the secretary finally, "That is quite intriguing. I believe the President would like for you to have lunch with him today, Hestone-" Zachary squeals involuntarily in delight, "-oh, and bring the prisoner with you."

Zachary looks at me with a dangerous glint in his eye as he switches off the radio and my whole being fills with dread.

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"_Hello, Johanna," says President Snow._ Water, Torture, Slaughter, Chapter 14.

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_**Wellll … what did you think? Please tell me. Oh, and where are all the reviews, guys? This story has had 2718 views and only 36 reviews! So click that big blue button! I love you all!**_


	15. Preparations

_**A/N: Hello! I'm so sorry I haven't updated in forever and a day … I've been very busy! And I've been writing my NEW sotry, Adam and Annemarie. (PS: I would love it if you checked it out! ;))Thank you so much for the amazing response to the last two chapters – 8 reviews! You guys rock. Also, I am so sorry this chapter isn't actually the lunch with President Snow – I was planning it would be but then I got a bit carried away … Anyway, enjoy! Review!**_

_**Disclaimer: Are disclaimers really necessary anymore? We all know I don't own it.**_

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President Snow … what on earth will happen to me?

"Well, I ought to get ready," sniffed Zachary, checking his watch. "I'll get some guards to escort you back to your room and I suggest you prepare yourself as well. This is, after all, _lunch with the President._" He laughs, and departs quickly, still laughing.

"Oh, bugger," I mutter to myself once the last of Zachary's almost maniacal laughter has died away down the corridor. "Bugger, bugger, bugger." Then I simply scream in frustration and try to squirm out of the chains. It's impossible. I let out a frustrated noise and slump down. I want to kick something. Or someone. I'm not fussed.

The door opens soundlessly and a silent escort of guards file in. One has the keys to my chains and he unlocks them without looking at me. I try to spring up and escape, but my body is still stiff from lying on a cold floor for hours, so I fall back over again and the guards have an opportunity to grab my arms and twist them behind my back. I squeal in pain, and to my surprise, their grip loosens. I attempt to struggle free and it tightens again, so I simply hang loose from my captures' arms, as they half-drag, half-carry me out the door.

I expect them to take them back to my room, my prison, to moulder away until Zachary is ready. But no, me being here, them _torturing_ me, having to come face-to-face with the President now, no that isn't humiliating and demeaning and inhumane enough, they evidently have to dress me and pluck me before serving.

I am escorted into a room different to any than I have ever seen before here. Glass doors, a bell that tinkles merrily as they drag me in. Inside is a room unlike no other. Costumes and clothes in every colour of the rainbow hang on racks around the edges of the candy-floss pink and baby blue painted room. In the middle are two enormous tables – one has a wide variety of hair-brushes, clips and heating products on it, with a mirror in the middle.

The other table has enough makeup on it to paint a clown, with another big mirror in the middle. I am, literally, stunned.

"W-what?!" I manage to stutter out.

"Orders are to leave you 'ere, Miss," says one of the guards with brown curly hair and a kind face, "You 'ave to get dressed and ready for lunch." They leave, and close the big glass doors behind them. I hear the soft _click_ of the lock.

I am left in the dust and silence to choose my dress.

I find myself wondering how often this room is used. Although everything, at first sight, seemed to sparkle with some sort of magic. But now I see that a thin layer of dust covers everything. This is a top-secret building used especially to torture and slowly kill people like me, people who defy the Capitol. So how did this room come about? What do they use it for?

Then I start wondering another thing. Why does the President want to see me? He can't seriously just want to invite me to a pleasant lunch with him and Zachary. I am almost certain there is something ominous under this offer.

And he didn't even make the decision, I realise suddenly. His secretary had, over the radio with Zachary. It had seemed spur-of-the-moment, but perhaps this "lunch" had been planned for a long time, they were just waiting for me to spill the secret …

Tears pool at the edges of my eyes so I swallow and fight them down. It's my fault. All my fault. Why did I tell them? _I'm cracking_, I realise, _I'm breaking down_.

The President must've been planning what to do with me ever since I got here. He was just waiting for me to do that one thing …

But it didn't make sense, I realise. They all kept making it seem like they already knew about the plan in the arena and they didn't even seem to need a confession to verify their suspicions.

So why does me _finally_ confessing it – when they appeared to already know – change anything, how does it merit a visit to the President. No, I decide, it doesn't, there's a bigger picture to this that I'm not seeing.

I'm not sure if I should go or not now. Sure, I could refuse, but would it change anything? When has it ever changed anything?

I suppose I just put on one of these ghastly costumes and get it over with. I stand up and start searching amongst the racks.

In this innocent-looking room, there are the most unpleasant surprises I find whilst rummaging around, trying to find something half modest to wear. It's not just the clothes that are ghastly – although they are, really – but there are worst things then the clothes themselves in this room. Every time I pull a whole heap of coat-hangers along the rack, the metal of the coat-hangers and the metal of the rack make a horrible screeching noise as they grind together. Also a huge cloud of yellow, poisonous-looking dust rises up and threatens to suffocate me. I cough and fan it away.

That's not all. As I try to pull a heavy rack weighed down with too many clothes to count away from the wall, an eruption of high-pitches squeaking interrupts me and two scruffy-looking black rats dart out from behind the rack, scamper across the room to hide under a rack of wedding dresses on the other side. I watch them in disgust. Thankfully I hadn't planned trying on the wedding dresses any way.

This all just confirms my suspicions that this room hasn't been used in years – decades maybe. In fact, I seriously ponder the idea that I'm the first person to ever use the room full stop. Perhaps they build it and stored it with clothes and makeup, then never ever used it. Or maybe they did – maybe this is where they put the dead bodies! And their ghosts hide amongst the clothes on the racks, rising in a cloud of hideous yellow dust when they are disturbed, to finally get their revenge …

Good, I think. Maybe they'll murder the President while they're at it.

Finally, after what seems like an age of searching and inevitably disturbing more yellow and dusty horrors, I find it. The perfect outfit.

It's a dress – olive green with a skirt that reaches my ankles. The sleeves go down to half-way between my armpit and elbow, in a demure sort of way. The bodice is well-fitted, but at the waist it suddenly flows out. The neckline is low, but not too low. The neckline, and the hems of sleeves and the hem of the skirt are all edged by little green lacy leaves.

It's in a word, perfect. But not because it's "pretty" or much more modest than anything else I've found in here so far. No, there's a – how can I put it? – significant reason why this is what I have to wear.

I wonder if President Snow will recognise this as an exact replica of the dress I wore when I was crowned Victor.

I slip on the dress carefully to discover it's a perfect fit which gets me wondering … is this where all the chariot costumes and interview clothes go after the Hunger Games is finished each year? In that case, this could be the very same dress I wore when I was crowned Victor.

I don't bother with my hair – there's practically none there, anyway – but I do wash my face with the water from a small silver tap at the makeup table. I don't bother with even opening the huge cupboard at the end of the room, which I presume holds hundreds of pairs of shoes – I decide to go barefoot.

Will President Snow notice I'm missing a toenail?

It takes me about ten minutes to do all this. Then I am left to wait.

I estimate that I have been sitting on the stool by the makeup table for about forty-five minutes when someone finally appears on the other side of the glass doors and unlocks them. It's more of those security guards, with Zachary bobbing excitedly behind them. I have to stifle a laugh when I see him – he is in a canary-yellow suit with a bright red bow-tie. He has also added some red streaks to his hair – I can see they're still glistening wet.

The security guards storm in (different ones this time, ones that look more aggressive) and garb me roughly by the arms.

"I can walk by myself, thank you!" I shout at them, and struggle free. They don't stop me but I do notice them looking wary, trying to determine whether this was an escape plan or not. But it isn't – I'm just sick of being dragged everywhere by security guards. I straighten my back, correct my posture, and walk evenly out of the glass doors to where Zachary is waiting. He looks absolutely ridiculous but I manage to maintain my composure.

"Are you ready to go to the President's office?" asks Zachary in excitement, positively bobbing up and down in excitement.

"Yes," I say evenly, inspecting his choice of clothing without a smile, "I am ready to go and see the President."

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"_Well, I ought to get ready. I'll get some guards to escort you back to your room and I suggest you prepare yourself as well. This is, after all, _lunch with the President_." Zachary Hestone, Water, Torture, Slaughter, Chapter 15._

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_**OK, what did you think? Next chapter, we will be going to see the President … Are you scared? I am.**_

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	16. Lunch with President Snow

_**Author's Note: Hello! I'm so so sorry I haven't updated till now, I've been busy, but that's not really a valid excuse, is it? But wow, you guys did awesome on reviewing – 8 for just the last chapter! Thank you so much :) Anyways, this chapter is extra-long so I hope that partly makes up for it!**_

_**P.S. Hello Creepy Stalker Guy. Thank you for your "reviews" (air quotes). My reply to your reviews is at the end of this chapter.**_

_**Disclaimer: Yeah, I do wish I owned it sometimes, but I don't.**_

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We walk silently along a long corridor, then turn left, then right. I try to remember our route but it's too difficult, and anyways, I will probably never return to the costume room anyway.

Our party is an unusual one. Zachary is at the very front, skipping every few steps and bursting with excitement. He looks ridiculous in his yellow suit and bright red tie, so I avert my eyes.

After Zachary comes about four security guards, walking in sync and side by side so that there is no gap between them, no escape. Then there's me, just walking by myself. After me come the rest of the security guards, about six of them. Originally all of the security guards were completely alert and taking in my every move to ensure I didn't escape, but after five minutes and some rather odd remarks from Zachary, two of them went up and front to walk next to Zachary as if they were slightly concerned about him too. I didn't blame them.

"How do I look?" chatters Zachary excitedly to the security guard on his right. He didn't pause for an answer. "What do you think the President will think? Will he enjoy my company? Will he –" Zachary suddenly halts in his mindless chatter as an impossible possibility crosses his mind; "Will he ask me to come back?"

Zachary is actually silent for a while as he contemplates this. Unfortunately, it doesn't last long.

"Oh, I'm sure he will! If I say the right things, if I'm charming and presentable … What should I talk about? What topics should I bring up? Oh – no, wait don't answer!" The security guard looks at him with a bored expression.

"I know," says Zachary, and pronounces his next sentence slowly as if this was necessary for the full genius of his idea to be expressed, "The … plans for … the next … Hunger Games!" My stomach clenches suddenly; I wasn't expecting it.

"Maybe," I drawl, causing the security guards to tense suddenly as if I was about to attempt an escape, "You could suggest that you will have a more … significant role in the next Hunger Games."

"Quiet, prisoner!" calls out Zachary. I ignore him.

"Front row seats," I muse, "Firsthand experience? It would, of course, be televised to the whole nation."

Zachary is silent this time and I can tell I've caught his attention.

"Perhaps, even …" I ponder, and pause, giving myself vicious enjoyment, "You could … meet the tributes face-to-face."

Zachary sniffs a little disdainfully.

"And how," he says in an uptight voice, "How do you propose I do that?"

"Oh, I don't know," I reply casually, shrugging my shoulders, "Maybe – you could even – PARTICIPATE?!" I roar out the last word as blind anger grips me.

Two security guards grab my arms and yank them upwards at my outburst.

"LET ME GO!" I cry, trying to squirm out of their grasp, "GET OFF OF ME!" But they no longer trust that I will be a good, law-abiding and moralistic prisoner; they won't let go. I choke down a sob as they practically carry me down the next corridor.

Zachary's remark, which I'm sure he thought was innocent (but this is the same person who thought that idea was genius) brought up bitter memories like the vomit that sometimes rises to your throat. You swallow it down again, or spit it out, but surely you know inevitably that it will come again, someday? Yes, although my memories have been squashed down to the muddiest recesses of my mind, filed away to the back of the cabinet, they do visit me sometimes. Oftentimes, of late. Usually in my sleep, which I expect, but this I didn't, which somehow makes it different.

I swallow, as if to make the bitter and sour memories go back down. Zachary seems rather unperturbed by my outburst of passionate anger. He paused in his mindless chatter for a minute or so, as if surprised by my suggestion. But then he answered as normally as if I had made the suggestion that he went down to the dairy to buy some milk.

"Um, I really don't think so. I mean, what if the arena was a frozen land of ice! I don't know how to make an – a – an _eegaloo_. Where would I sleep? And really, it's so unhygienic, with all the blood and guts that gets left over." I can practically hear him wrinkling his nose in disgust. "And yes, maybe some of the tributes would be nice and share some of their food with me if I asked politely, but really, they _are_ just people from the Districts. I mean, if I got to meet the _Victor_ then that would be alright, but it's different when they're just the tributes, you know what I mean? And if I look at this from a strategic point of view, I wouldn't even really be able to make any good acquaintances, any lasting friends, because, well, they'd all die before I'd known them for long enough to remember their names!" He laughed heartedly. I stopped listening.

The security guards still had me by the arms, but they were letting me walk with my own legs now, at least.

"Where are we going?" I growl, over Zachary recalling a story of how he took six months to remember the name of his rabbit – he kept having to change it, apparently.

One of the guards looks down at me in surprise.

"President Snow does not live here," he says in a low, surprisingly gentle voice. "We will take a car to his house to meet him and – and have lunch, I am told." I can tell by the expression on his face that he knows that he and the other guards will be excluded from this lunch.

I'm surprised I could be so stupid. Of course we wouldn't be having lunch here! I doubt there is even a room suitable to eat in, apart from the staff's tearoom, which I presume exists somewhere. But a room worthy of the President to sit and eat in surely wouldn't be contained in here – but then I remember the costume room and I think, _well, perhaps it does_.

We walk for a few more minutes, through a warren-like labyrinthine set of passageways. I get confused and begin to feel a little dizzy. But Zachary seems to know his way around fairly well. At least, I hope he does.

We come to the end of the passage, which seems to be just a stretch of blank wall. I look at Zachary confusedly: he must have lost his way. But Zachary just winks at me, and gestures for the guards to stand back.

He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows importantly, turning around to give us a confident smile. Then he turns back to the wall and slowly presses his flat palm to a specific part of it. Suddenly a series of loud beeps emit from the walls around us and the lights along the wall dim.

"Not to worry, not to worry!" calls out Zachary, trying to assure us, "That's meant to happen!"

After 30 seconds or so, the beeping stops and the lights return to their normal state. I let out a breath in relief. The panel of the wall that Zachary pressed spins around to reveal a tiny blue blinking screen. I see the words ENTER PASSCODE flash up on the screen briefly before Zachary blocks it from view, busy typing in numbers. He steps away; a new message on the screen has replaced the last; CORRECT, ENTRY WILL SOON BE PERMITTED. The blinking blue screen flips around to become part of the wall again, and a different part of the wall folds out to reveal what looks like a credit card swiper, which I've heard of but never seen before. Zachary fumbles in his pockets for a moment, mutters, "Drat!" then finally finds what he was looking for, a slim silver card. He swipes it in the machine and it folds back into the wall.

A third part of the wall opens up; another blinking blue screen and a small cache. Words flash up on the screen: PLEASE PROVIDE DNA SAMPLE. Zachary grumbles and, reluctantly, tugs out a strand of hair from his head and places it in the cache. This being done, the wall sealed up once more and stayed that way for a few seconds as if contemplating, then finally, the entire thing opened inwards to reveal more passageways.

Zachary leads us through these for a few more minutes. We reach another blank wall and Zachary repeats the process of identification.

Finally we emerge out into a gleaming golden foyer. I blink in surprise at the sunlight streaming in through vast glass windows and doors and it is only then that I realise how dim the passageways we travelled through were. In the middle of this room is a golden fountain of a carp, balancing by its tail on a stone platform, its head extended to the ceiling. A never-ceasing stream of clear water shoots out of the carp's open mouth and as I look at it, I begin to feel thirsty.

The water falls down to a shining stone pool. It's not like the tiny fountain I saw in District 1, on the Victory Tour, where the stone was worn and the pool was covered in furry green moss. The stone of this fountain glistens clean and bright.

I see that gold and silver coins lie in the pool. Next to the pool, a feature I hadn't spotted before is a small yellow sign. I lean forwards slightly to read it.

**ALL PROCEEDS**

_From the Fountain of Innovation_

**WILL BE DONATED TO THE CIRCENSES PRISON**

_To ensure that our golden city_

**IS KEPT SAFE,**

_Our moralistic laws_

**ARE UPHELD**

_And our children_

**ARE GUARDED**

_From traitors with ill-intention_

I jerk back, in shock at what I had just read.

"Circenses Prison?" I whisper to myself. Somewhere, the name rings a bell.

"That's where you were being held," whispers the guard who told me where we were going. "Most of the population doesn't realise this place is just an extension of it."

"They come here when they feel like it?"

"Yes – it's a museum. Of the history of Panem. Circenses Prison is underground, and the Museum is built over it, on ground-level." I hadn't noticed before that we had been walking uphill, but now I reflected, there had been a slight slope. I suppose it was gradual so people in the prison wouldn't realise that they were underground, although I don't see why that information might put the Capitol at risk. Perhaps they thought someone could use that information to form an escape plan? Anyway, the prison being underground and the gentle slope must be why we had to take such a long route to get here.

The ceiling of the foyer is like a dome, and the floor is made of high-polished reddish wood. Overall, it makes rather an impression.

A lady at a large mahogany desk at the far end of the room suddenly looks up. She narrows her eyes through red square spectacles at us suspiciously.

"What are you here for?" Her voice rings through the room.

Zachary gives what I'm sure he thinks is an award-winning smile. "We've been told to come here," he says importantly, "To meet a car which will take us to the President?" He flashes her another smile. She snorts.

"The President?" Her voice indicates her scorn. "The likes of you? That, I doubt." Her eyes sweep the group and linger on the security guards holding me upright and Zachary's bright-yellow suit.

Zachary looks back at us, confused. The security guards shrug to indicate they had no idea.

"Um … I was told to come here …" Zachary trails off awkwardly. The lady at the desk stands up and peers at us suspiciously again.

"After Thursday," she says carefully, "Will the magpie fly to earth or remain below the fiery hoard?" Zachary looks back at us and in his expression it's clear he thinks he's in the presence of a madwoman. But then the biggest security guard (all muscle, no brains, I had presumed) speaks up for the first time.

"Only if the light sprinkling of rain falls upon the ocean deep and clouded frost," he intones softly. The lady behind the desk nods in approval as I realise I've just witnessed something of an exchange – they must have arranged what they had to say beforehand.

"This way," the lady says, sweeping her arm to the left and trotting off to a small wall that I wouldn't've noticed if she hadn't led us straight to it. She takes a small silver key out of her pockets and unlocks the door, then steps aside to allow us through. Zachary goes first, cautiously, peering around the dim doorway. Then the first lot of security guards – most of them have to bend down – and after them, me and the two security guards holding my arms. Then the rear of our party – the last lot of big, burly security guards. And then the lady must have shut the door because the room is suddenly blanketed in darkness.

"Don't panic, don't panic!" calls out Zachary from further up ahead, as people start moving around in confusion. "I'm sure this is all meant to happen!" In that second I realise Zachary has no idea what he's doing. He's scared, confused, just trying to impress the woman he loves – Cassandra. He's in the presence of about a dozen muscular high-trained guards and a prisoner who could kill him with his own hand. I understand Zachary – doesn't mean I pity him.

We try to keep walking but are met with a solid wall. Zachary tries in vain to press parts of the wall, hoping it will open, but to no avail. Then suddenly, just as he's beginning to suggest we go back, the floor starts moving down.

"Ah! – that's it of course!" cries Zachary as if he had known all along, "An elevator! Very simple when you think of it – no need to panic – perfectly organised –" Then a thought strikes him, one which I am surprised hasn't entered his brain yet.

"That means," the quirky looking man says, "We're about to see the President!" That silences him.

At that moment, the elevator jerks to a halt. It doesn't actually jerk; nothing does, here in the Capitol. Perhaps it would have been more correct to say it slid smoothly to a halt.

An entire side of the elevator opens us and dazzles our eyes with light. Some of the guards who had been leaning against that side of the elevator stumbled back in surprise. This time it's me who leads us out.

The light in the corridor we've stepped into isn't actually as bright as I first thought: now my eyes adjust to it. It's a long corridor, the floor, wall and ceiling are made of a shiny black stone which reflects the lights into my eyes. The lights themselves are set into the ceiling, covered with a thick glass which I presume is unbreakable. There are no doors along the sides of this corridor, instead there is one very large door at the end of it; mahogany, high-polished, menacing. But I was not scared.

"Come on," I called back harshly, "Let's go." They follow my long paces as if scared to come near me. If only they could feel how fast my heart was beating. Suddenly I think of something. "I thought you said we were meeting a car," I say, stopping abruptly.

"Are you talking to me?" asks Zachary confusedly, "What?"

"I thought you said we were meeting a car to see the President," I reply coldly.

"Oh – right – well yes, we were. Must be a change of plan." My skin crawls, this doesn't feel right. I shiver involuntarily and then set off again down the corridor, hoping no one saw.

We arrive at the door. A big, brass knocker is set into the middle of it. I raise my hand to knock and it looks pale and small. I drop it.

Zachary hurries forward, takes the brass knocker in both hands and knocks loudly upon the door with it. "Come in," says a soft voice from within the room. My stomach twists in a mixture of fear and disgust. Zachary reaches out to open the door but before he even touches the polished wood it swings inwards silently. Something inside of me screams _trap!_, and it's partly because the door swings inwards; someone could be hiding behind it.

There is an odd moment. We linger at the doorway, no one wanting to be the first to step into the dark, shadowy room.

"Come in!" says the voice again, louder this time, and hands are pressing onto my back and I stumble into the darkened room, and, well – I'm frightened.

Suddenly lights come on and the door slams behind me and oh God, because it's not President Snow smiling at me from the big wooden desk in the middle of the room, and now I know why my skin was crawling it's because I knew that this wasn't right and it isn't, I see that now, it's so obvious because the lunch was organised so quickly, and I doubt President Snow even knew about, it was just his secretary over the radio, wasn't it, and I really should never have come here because right in front of me now is my _worst_ nightmare, worse than President Snow, by far, because it gave me glory and yet it also gave me a library of nightmares that I'd visit every time I closed my eyes, and it gave me kids, but not my own, and it hits me how amazing it is that a single person can do this much but really my mind isn't functioning at all, you see, because it's –

"So glad you could make it Johanna," says Seneca Crane.

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_Good luck, Suki. Good luck, little friend. God help us through this mess._ Johanna, Water, Torture, Slaughter, Chapter 13.

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_**Hahahahahahaha – yeah, don't worry, my memory of Seneca Crane is perfectly accurate and all shall be explained in the next chapter.**_

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_**Replies to Anonymous reviewers:**_

_**Creepy Stalker Guy: Ha ha, thanks for your reviews nonetheless, and I actually don't find you too creepy as most of my friends are stalkerish (I don't care that it's not a word) and I do know about Wattpad, one of my (less-stalker) friends told me about it. I'll see if I can find your story! And thank you for picking up on those typos, I usually don't bother to spell-check after finishing a chapter as normally I'm just glad it's done and so I instantly put it up.**_

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_**Review!**_


	17. The Avox

_**A/N: So I have finally updated. And it is all thanks to one important, persisitent, annoying person: Crazy Packers Fan. Thank you! Without your insistence via private messages, I honestly would never have finished this chapter.**_

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_**Disclaimer: If I owned it, I would dedicate it to Crazy Packers Fan. But I don't. But I'm still dedicating it to them :)**_

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My brain tells me quietly, sensibly almost, that I've finally started having delusions, as this cannot be real. Seneca Crane, you see, is dead. Long dead. He died a year ago, because in his panic he allowed two Victors for the 74th Hunger Games, which is unacceptable, absolutely out of the question, so this cannot be him here, now. It simply can't.

But when humans evolved, crawling out of primeval slime and beginning to work, their brains became so complex that they – almost became detached from their bodies. Someone said that to me once. I can't quite remember who – it might've been Alice Gardener. I thought she'd for sure gone raving mad at the time but now I think I understand what she was getting at. You see, whilst my brain presents a perfectly logical explanation of why this simply _cannot_ be Seneca Crane, my body is in panic.

The first thing I'm aware of is my palms. I never thought your palms could get sweaty, I thought it was all part of an elaborate fairy-tale.

That was before I was first reaped.

They're sweating again now and God I'm so scared, but not scared like in the Hunger Games where you run or, in the worst case, scream, scared in a different concept, scared like a rabbit trapped in headlights.

Once, back in the orphanage, we were searching for one of the little kids in the dark. Timmy, his name was. He'd wandered off into the woods nearby and the carers hadn't noticed till dinnertime. "Where's little Timmy?" they asked one another, "He's usually so eager for dinner." That's when they realised he was missing.

So out had come our small supply of torches and the carers had enlisted the help of all us orphans. We split up into little groups of four or five, and started searching.

My group didn't find him, another did but my friend little Alice Gardener was in the group that found him and she told me what happened.

"We heard a rustling in the bushes," she whispered to me over breakfast the next day, bleary-eyed like everyone whose help had been enlisted. "Then it was like something darted forward in front of us so we aimed our torch beams that way, and there was little Timmy, running across the path. The moment he saw us, and the light of our torches, he froze up all right 'n proper. Like a little garden gnome he was, only none of us laughed. It was like the light had turned him into a statue. The only thing that was moving was his eyes, darting back and forth like he was looking for some escape. Then he just crumpled into a heap and started sobbing."

I was like little Timmy now. Only he had died a week after, of a bad fever I think but hunger would've contributed. I hope I don't follow that bit of his fate. Not that that matters anymore.

I'm breathing quickly through my nose now, and my eyes are doing the same thing even though my body's seized up – they're darting back and forth, then examining Seneca Crane with a kind of intensity to see if he's real, but he seems real enough, a smile playing across his lips that looks something sinister. I shudder involuntarily and this makes him smile wider and there's something eating up my stomach, something black and shrivelled up and awful that I know shouldn't be there when he smiles.

Suddenly there's a loud crackling sound, the source of which I can't place, and Seneca disappears. Just like that.

I gasp involuntarily and then clap my hand to my mouth as if to stifle the sound. It's only then that I become fully aware of the sounds behind me, of hands beating on the door and voices shouting.

"Oi! Let us in!"

"What's 'appening?!"

A flustered voice: "President Snow! Sir – or do you prefer Coriolanus? Sir Coriolanus? President Sir?" That would be Zachary, of course.

Something tells me – my brain again, being smart – to turn around and open the door. Strength in numbers. Even though they're my enemy, it would be almost comforting to have Zachary here, flustered and worrying and looking around the room for President Snow. But my body thinks otherwise – it remains rooted to the spot as my eyes do a slow sweep of the room, searching for anything at all that would indicate or explain the appearance, then sudden disappearance, of one of the people I hate most in this world.

There's something on the desk. A little silver chip or something. It glints in the half-light. Feeling sort of brain-dead (although I wouldn't know what that feels like) – spacey and detached and as if I'm looking through another person's eyes, I take a few steps closer to the desk. The little silver thing, it emits a faint glow from the other side, the one I'm not facing. The one where Seneca Crane was sitting.

I move my head to the side slowly, putting together the pieces in my brain as they begin to make sense. I'm still staring at the chip in a sort of fascination when arms grab me from behind and drag me down.

That snaps me out of my reverie. I jerk up, surprised that I hadn't heard the person's approach. I struggle against the strong bonds of the arms that encircle me but really they had too good a chance to get a proper grip while I was staring at the chip and now there's not much I can do. They drag me, screaming and shouting and clawing and biting at the person's arms. They don't even react. I look up, heart pounding, to their face and see narrow eyes and lizard features. Remembering the human-like lizard-mutts they sent to get information of me, the horrible never-ending hisses of _Tell me, telllll meeee…._, I gasp and struggle harder, stamping down on the feet of my capture.

This time they do look down, in surprise. I see their face isn't that lizard-like after all, they are just unfortunate enough to be not only a Capitol citizen, but also extremely ugly.

Then I see the markings along their right cheek that indicate they are an Avox, and my heart seizes up in shame when I think of what I assumed – first lizard-mutt then Capitol citizen and ugly.

"Why are you doing this?" I whisper, not expecting an answer. Because I already know. It's because they – whoever they are – did something against the law without thinking, in the heat of the moment, without any or little prior planning, to save a loved one perhaps. And now they've been punished. And now they regret it. And now they just want to keep as quiet as it is possible to be when you can't talk, so as not to attract any more unwanted attention. Still, I continue, "You don't _have _to do this. I'm trying to help the cause you started. I'm rebelling. You don't have to help us. Not in a big way, anyway. You don't have to start fights or join campaigns or even meet anyone else from the resistance. But there's one way you can help." My voice is almost a whimper, "Let me go."

The Avox stops for a moment and looks down on me, thinking perhaps, considering. Then it shakes its head and looks away from me, and starts dragging my body again. I hang limp in the Avox's arms. I don't try to struggle.

The Avox takes me to the back of the room, which is longer than I first thought. As we go further along, it gets narrower, turning into a small gap we can only just squeeze through. I wonder where we are going to go now, then the Avox turns right and starts walking along a narrow corridor I hadn't seen. It flabbergasts me, how labyrinthine this place is. How do they ever find their way around? I suppose the whole point is so that prisoners like me don't escape, even if by some means they manage to get out of their cells. I have enough appreciation to acknowledge it's clever, but it doesn't make me like the Capitol anymore for it. Rather it makes me hate them more, which doesn't make much sense but neither does sending kids to kill each other and starve. I guess the complex system of corridors and doors and rooms and passcodes has finally convinced me that I really will never escape. I will be here forever, and die in here, mangled and bloodied on the floor after they go too far trying to get information.  
Tears pool at the edges of my eyes unexpectedly. I don't bloody want the stainless steel and suffocatingly small rooms to be the last thing I ever see. I have dreams. I used to dream of destroying the Capitol and being _free_. Such a simple word. Four letters. One syllable. An insignificant word, really, but it had come to mean so much to me.

Now I only dreamt of escaping this God-forsaken place and actually being able to breathe proper air again. That's what my schooling and life ambitions had come down to.

I thought about all this as the Avox half-dragged me, half-led me down the narrow corridor. After only about a minute we come to the end of the corridor, where it opens up to a small circular room. The room, in fact, is just like a sphere, the ceiling and floor and wall all doomed. The whole room is painted a stark white. I have a thought. I don't want to die here. It's a simple thought, sure, but it means a lot to me. I don't want to die in this strange, circular, anonymous room.

The Avox lets go of me. I turn around and look into its eyes. For the first time I notice that she's a girl.

"Are they going to kill me?" I whisper, feeling like a little child, asking her mother if monsters hid under her bed. Most sinister monsters these ones are; monsters who didn't just lurk under your bed, they lurked everywhere: behind doors, in schools, following you wherever you went. Always reminding you that you were at their constant mercy. And that you couldn't do anything about it.

The Avox didn't reply. "Are they going to kill me?!" I demand, my voice stronger now. The Avox looks at me properly for the first time, and shrugs. She then looks away, maybe afraid of making too much eye contact with someone who was possibly condemned to death.

The Avox goes back into the corridor and slides open the wall. Hell, if I could access all the random stuff hidden in the walls of this place I could fight down the Capitol, no problem. Probably not with a white table though, which is what the Avox is wheeling out. She pushes it into the room and fits the rollers on the bottom into small dips in the dome-like floor. Then she points at me, then to the table. She doesn't need a voice to tell me what she wants here.

"Please …" I try one last time. The Avox shakes her head, points to me then points to the table. I decide to risk it: I run at the open doorway, the possibility of freedom. I hear footsteps behind me but miraculously now I'm through the doorway, running down the door, turning left then –

Dead end.

The sounds of Zachary and the security guards are gone. So is the desk, along with the strange silver chip on top of it. It disturbs me how easily this place is rearranged; changed to accommodate the various needs of the Capitol. I run to the door and pound on it. I pull at the handle, kick the lock, but of course it doesn't budge. Panting, my heart pounding, I turn around. The Avox is standing calmly where Seneca's desk used to be.

"Help!" I scream at her. She just looks straight at me and shakes her head. _There is no escape_.

I can still try to fight, though, can't I? I can still try to escape. I run past the Avox, who doesn't even try to stop me, run down the corridor to the place where she slid open the door. It is still gaping open. In there are surgical tools, a bucket full of what looks like water, a knife. I grab the last one and clutch it hard in my hand, creeping down the corridor. It's been a while since I last killed someone. The last time I used a knife was when I cut the tracker out of Katniss's arm.

The urge to survive is beyond primitive; it's primeval, no thinking, just do what you have to to survive. Kill, kill, kill.

I'm getting closer to the place where the corridor turns left. I can almost see the blood, almost feel the victory pounding alongside my heart. Kill, kill, kill.

Turn left. Tighten grip on the handle of the blade. Creep closer to the place where the Avox is slowly turning, backing away, putting her hands up in a sign of defeat. Kill, kill, kill.

Her pupils enlarge in fear, backing away slowly until her back touches the opposite wall. Her eyes widen in realisation. Kill. Kill. Kill.

Die. Die. Die.

And in that moment, as the knife is poised above her heart, I see someone else standing there, cowering in fear against the wall. I see Alice Gardener. "Don't hurt me, Johanna!" she cries, tears pooling in her eyes. My grip slackens. My mind is confused. The survival instinct, the survival urge, begins to ebb away.

Then Alice Gardener changes to become Suki. The knife drops from my hands. Her eyes follow its progress down, until it clatters upon the floor. Then she looks up at me again, big blue eyes full of something deep and unchanging, something the English language is still looking for a word for. Her voice is full of curiosity and disgust, "You were going to kill me?" she says softly.

The room spins and my eyes go blurry. I press my hands to my face as I fall down onto the floor beside the knife.

"Noooo!" I cry, a long agonised note of despair. Because I realise, although the Avox isn't someone as good or pure as Alice Gardener or Suki, she's also most definitely not one of the Capitol either. No, she's someone like me, just trying to survive, just trying to fight the dark forces that surround both of us.

Strong hands grab me and something sharp is jabbed into my arm.

Then everything is nothing.

Then everything goes black.

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**_Hopefully I will update soon. I probably will, since I know exactly what is happening next and I'm looking forward ot writing it. But regardless, REVIEW!, and I will love you (hey, that rhymes)._**


	18. Water Torture

**_A/N: Yay, another update! Hope you enjoy this chapter, though it's a bit short. Also thanks for the response and reviews on the last chapter - you guys rock!_**

**_Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins owns it all._**

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_Drip, drip, drip,_ is the sound that greets me when I come to. At first I think I'm dreaming, because the sound is echoing in my head, but then I awake properly and it doesn't go away. I'm lying on something, the table no doubt, and from above, a constant and steady dripping of water is falling onto my forehead.

I groan and try to turn my head to the side, to escape the drips of water that trickle down to my eyes, and that is when I notice that I can't. I frown a little, and try to move my head again. I open my eyes.

I'm still in the strange, spherical room with its bright white walls and table. Which I am bound to. Yes. That's right.

My head has gone fuzzy and strange from whatever was in the thing they jabbed into my arm. They. Who are they? Thing. What is that? The word is at the tip of my tongue, and then I remember. _Needle_. Yes, that's right, that's the word I am looking for.

Head. My head. Can't move. Water. Dripping. _Drip, drip, drip_.

I try to shake my head to clear it, but I still can't move it. I try to raise my hand to slap my face to wake myself, but I can't move my arms either. I screw up my eyes in annoyance. _Why can't I move?!_

The endless dripping of the water isn't helping. "Hello?" I say, wondering if anyone else is in the room. There is no reply, and I can't see anyone in my peripheral vision, so that means the room must be empty. Unless there's someone incredibly quiet and anti-social behind me, or under this table for that what. I screw up my nose. Under the table? Creepy.

Speaking of the table, it's incredibly uncomfortable. All hard and cold, not even any thin sheets or mattresses like the hospital in Seven we once went to an excursion on. I thought the Capitol was supposed to be all luxury, king beds and big soft mattresses and pillows with feathers in them. I'd never felt or even seen a pillow with feathers in it, but I'd once read about them in a really old book my primary teacher forced me to read. They sounded cosy and _right_.

Anyway, nothing of the sort here. Just cold hard metal and the constant dripping of water.

What _are_ they doing? I wonder. My brain is still fuzzy. Why can't I move? What's with the water, the constant _drip, drip, drip_? What's the purpose in that?

The constant dripping is starting to annoy me. "Go away," I want to say, "Go bother someone else." It's also making me thirsty. When was the last time I drank? Questions, questions, questions. Go away questions. Go away drips. I don't like you.

The white room is lit by an equally white light: glaring, bright, and just above my eyes. Oh great. Questions and drips and bright lights that make my eyes hurt when I look at them. This day is not going well for me. Looking up, however, I can see where the water is dripping from. A little silver tap thing that is attached to an arm that reaches out to attach to something else, which I can't see because it's out of my line of sight.

I try looking to the right, where the arm stretches to, but my eyeballs will only move so far and I still can't move my head. _Why can't I move my head?_

I look upwards again, to the light. It's not a nice thing to look at, glary and burning, so I close my eyes. When I do, I can still see the white imprint of the glaring light against a background of black.

In the sphere room, time passes strangely. Sometimes slowly, slower than a snail, which is when I count the drips upon my forehead and when I get to a thousand still nothing has happened. Sometimes it passes in great bounds and gallops, when I drift off into semi-consciousness and wake up and my whole face is wet from the water.

This is what happens after I'd been there for a few hours – although it could only have been forty-five minutes, or it could've been half a day – I drift off into something that's not quite sleep but not proper wakefulness either. When I do come to, snap out of it, sometime must've passed because whatever drug they shot into me has worn off. I can think clearly again.

I try to move my head. Nothing. This is because, I realise quickly, my head has been bound so tightly to something that I can't even make the slightest movement. Same for my arms and legs, and the rest of my body.

_Drip, drip, drip._ I still don't get that. Some old, long-forgotten memory is nudging my mind, something that I think is a sort of explanation to the water. I can't quite grasp it, with the drug having not quite completely worn off yet, and so I promptly dismiss it.

I drift off again.

_Drip, drip, drip. Drip, drip, drip._ The sounds echo inside my head even in my semi-consciousness. _Drip-drip-drip-drip-drip-dripdripdripdripdripdripdrip ._

When I awake for the third time, the cold water has started to make my forehead feel numb. The small area of skin that is receiving the onslaught of _drips_ has begun to hurt. I think the water is stuffing up my skin. Making it go red and uncomfortable.

I try to amuse myself, telling the room that they're not drips, they're drips and drops, like _drip-drop, drip-drop, drip-drop_, but that just makes me think of _tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock_, and the Quarter Quell, and my head starts to hurt even more.

The words "drip" and "drop" are starting to sound funny, being repeated so many times inside my head and out. _Drip_, what a strange word, who on earth came up with that? _Drop_, equally strange and nonsensical.

"I think I'm going mad," I inform the room at large one day. Or it might've been night. I don't know. "What is happening? What's the point of all the drips and drops and water? It makes me thirsty. The sound is echoing in my head even when I'm asleep. My forehead hurts."

It was just then that I remembered the memory that had tugged at my brain earlier.

I don't know where I heard about it – school, probably – the form of torture for prisoners called water torture. Maybe I remembered the memory because the two words rhyme. Maybe I remembered it because I'd always thought of torture as electric-chairs, knifes and thumb-screws, whilst this seemed so cold, so different, so inhumane.

Certainly reminded me of the Capitol.

Anyway, the way it worked was that the prisoner was strapped down to a chair or table, with their head tilted up to the ceiling. They were bound so tightly so that they couldn't move their head even half an inch. Then water was dripped (or dropped) onto one place on their head, the exact same place and with the water dripping consistently. It had driven prisoners mad.

Hmm, interesting technique of the Capitol. Physical torture had only worked a little bit, so they resort to a whole new level all together: Mental. Psychological.

I didn't know if I could cope with that.

Urgh, how long have I been here? _Drip drip. Drip drip._ A day at least. Two? Three? Up to a week? I don't know I don't know I don't know questions questions questions drip drip drip.

Echo. Echo. Echo.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I think I can actually _feel_ and _see_ my brain unlocking and falling apart. The closely-connected wires that pull it all together rusting and weakening with the water. I can _feel_ myself going crazy, going insane. Is that normal? Is that a good thing?

I'm so _thirsty_. My throat is parched and yet there's this endless supply of water just dripping a few centimetres too far. Argh! – drip drip drip drip drip – I _need_ water, I need a drink. And yet I _loathe_ water. Oh my goodness, why can't I just make up my mind?!

_Drip drip drip drip._

_Drip-drip-drip-drip._

_Dripdripdripdripdripdripdrip dripdripdripdripdripdripdrip ._

_Drip-drop. Drip-drop._

_Tick-tock. Tick-tock._

_Time's running out, Johanna._

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	19. Defiance and Victory

**_Disclaimer: Surprise, surprise, I still don't own it! Even after 18 chapters. It's all Suzanne Collins'. Hope you enjoy._**

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I hear an angel's voice when I wake up next. By now I've become slightly delirious; dehydration and the constant dripping are the causes, I'm sure. I see a blur of a face about me, like a pink splodge, and I hear someone say, from far away on the other end of a tunnel, "Johanna – wake up."

My eyes feel heavy and my forehead hurts. I try to swat at the face. I can't move my hands. That's when I remember; _I'm tied down_.

"Johanna, what are the secrets?" the angel's voice says, "What are District 13's plans?"

Maybe a minute before, in my semi-conscious half-delirious state, I would have told the angel. Whoever they were. But trying to move my arms had reminded me; _I'm tied down. I'm bound to the table. It's their fault. Them … the Capitol._

"No," my voice comes out as barely a croak. Even I can't hear it. I clear my throat and try again; "No!"

"Johanna, you're hurting," says the angel's voice, "You're hurting deep inside. I can help you. I can make the pain go away."

A little of the heavy fog in my mind clears. The voice sounds familiar, I think. Ten something soft and black is placed over my eyes and I can't see the face of the angel anymore.

"No …" I try to croak, but my voice and my resolve are weakening.

"I can make it all go away, Johanna. Just tell me the secret, and it will all go away. Everything …"

Who's voice is that? I could swear I've heard it before.

"You're going to die in here, Johanna Mason. They're going to kill you. I hate them too. Just tell me one thing …"

I try to turn my head to the side. "Suki?" I mumble confusedly.

"Where are they, Johanna?"

"Where are who?"

"You know what I mean, Johanna."

"Stop saying my name … who are you?!"

"_You're hurting, Johanna! You're hurting me!_"

"ALICE! NO, I DIDN'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT!"

My eyes are open and I'm trying to use them like x-rays, trying to see through the dark cloth that covers them. It's not working. They're welling up with tears. Tears. _No Johanna, you're not allowed to cry. Shut up bitch. Don't cry._

"Suki," I whisper, desperate to know. "Is that you?"

There is a small, shuffling sound to my right. "Suki?" I dare to whisper again. "Is that you?"

"No," says a cold harsh voice, and it comes to be in an instant; this is not Suki at all. My skin crawls with bugs of discomfort. "And you'll never see her again." My stomach congeals in fear as I feel the thing come closer. It breathes out onto the cloth, ruffling it slightly. An angel. How could I ever have thought this person – this _thing_ – could be an angel.

"What are the secrets?" the thing whispered onto my face.

"No," I whimper.

"Tell me," says the voice. My skin crawls with the memory. _Tell me, _my mind echoes. _Tell me, Johanna, or I'll rip your skin and lap at your blood and tear out great chunks of muscle and flesh …_ I feel something cold and malicious being pressed against my arm. "Where is District Thirteen?"

"I don't know!" I shout. The thing is pressed harder into my arm; it starts to hurt.

"Go _away!_" I demand, trying to summon as much courage as I can. I'm sick of it being this way; something dark and rotten has been boiling inside of me for a long time and I think it is blossoming. This is the way it had always been. Them, superior, standing tall above _us_, the poor people. And so we cower. Because we are afraid.

I told them something, I realise. How did I do that? How did I manage to betray everything, to chuck it away, just because they were hurting me? _You're hurting, Johanna. You're hurting me_.

I'm sick of it. The dark rotten thing has been buried under earth long enough; it's time for it to blossom into a great, terrible flower. I let out a shout;

"GO AWAY!"

The cold thing on my arm slips and breaks the skin. I wince, and try not to show it. The thing takes the blade off my arm, slowly, hesitantly …

"GO AWAY!"

Everything is silent. I'm breathing heavily. Then there is a clatter as the thing drops something, and the sound of running and a slammed door.

But the oddest thing is, I heard a dry sob somewhere in there too.

My arm is stinging, but my brain is straining more. There is, ultimately, one question weighing down on my mind.

_Who was that?_

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